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II I 1 1 1 1 UIIIRII ! JliFI 1 1 III II 
3 3433 08166216 9 

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Mat 1846 to October 1846. 




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A large circle of readers will be gratified to hear that the author of " Frank Fairlegh" has 
undertaken to furnish, for the forthcoming Volume, a continuation of the adventures of that general 
favourite. The series of beautiful and affecting sketches, bearing the title of " The Maiden Aunt," 
is also to be continued in the Volume. And the other papers which are either prepared, or in 
preparation, will, we think we can promise, not merely sustain the character of the Magazine up 
to the point it has already reached, but also show that we have not been inattentive to, or unwill- 
ing to profit by, the criticisms and suggestions of a public whom we have hitherto found so 
favourable and indulgent. 

While on this subject, let us return our respectful thanks for a great variety of interesting and 
able communications and contributions, which we have found it altogether impossible to acknow- 
ledge separately. The necessity under which we have been placed of declining to avail ourselves 
of a great number of these, has been frequently a cause of deep regret to ourselves. It has been, 
indeed, a necessity, arising, in a considerable proportion of cases, not from our having formed an 
unfavourable opinion of the literary merits of the offered contributions, or even of their suitableness 
for this Magazine, but simply from the physical impossibility of including more than a limited 
quantity of letter-press within our weekly sixteen pages. In order to prevent, for the future, as 
far as lies in our power, any persons from subjecting themselves unnecessarily to the risk of 
disappointment, we beg now to announce that our arrangements for the regular supply of such 
papers as we require are completed, and that, therefore, we do not solicit contributions from 
the writing public generally. Such as may continue to be sent will be respectfully received ; as 
carefully read as may be consistent with our other arrangements ; and replied to without any un- 
necessary delay. But the authors of such papers will be so good as keep in view, that, without 
at all fettering our freedom of choice^ we must, cateris paribus, give a preference to those upon 
whom we can rely for our regular supply of such papers as we need, and that we cannot, in 
common fairness, suffer them to be elbowed aside by casual contributions, except when these are 
of such manifest excellence, as that their rejection or postponement would be a positive injustice 
to the Magazine. 

• • • 

After thif lntyn&tkrf, whicfo.we trust will be received in the spirit in which it is given, it is 
only reasonable* tha> we, shQU^'remjesi to be allowed our own time in replying to unsolicited 
communications, •••JJiose only* who n# afre na< * experience of similar publications can form any 
idea, how serious* ^/enc^ak&mettt upon the time of both Editor and Publisher is occasioned by 
having to reply to* communications of no value whatever to the Magazine. We 
shall treat no ;peWon # » wfth* # # hjtentional discourtesy; but, as we do not ask for contributions, 
those who voluntarily senflt any, xnust feel that they can have no right to complain, if we post- 
pone the consideration of them ?o such matters as have a more legitimate claim upon our atten- 
tion. Importunate urgency, such as we have sometimes been subjected to, will undoubtedly 
succeed in extracting a reply from us out of the regular course ; but it is as well that those 
who may be disposed to have recourse to it should be aware, that the answer in that case is 
always of one kind — the rejection of the paper offered. 

Lohix>k, October, 1846. 

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Pontoon #laga?fne: 


No. 27.] 

MAY 2, 1846. 

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A most intricate lane is Bower Lane, branching out 
into a multitude of bridleways, and (so to speak) lane- 
lets, leading to isolated farms, cavernous gravel pits, and 
reedy pools,— a rugged tortuous lane winding through 
orchard grounds, and hop gardens, and slopes of pasture 
land, — now dipping into sombre hollows roofed by the 
meeting boughs of overhanging trees, now climbing to 
the top of pleasant knolls, from which you catch a 
glimpse of glistening waters creeping through the valley 
at your feet, and then piercing the very centre of the 
Farleigh woods, and leading you among the richest 
sylvan scenes, so wild, so seemingly remote from every 
sound of human life, that one almost looks to meet 
within its leafy precincts the fauns and nymphs and 
hamadryads of antique song. 

Midway between the woods and L , niched in & 

lordly group of elms, that, sweeping in a semicircle round 
the rear, form a glorious framework for the cottage and 
its sloping plot of garden-ground, stands Bower Court, 
the fragmentary relic of a noble house. Fragmentary 
indeed it is, as though the architect had been a " snapper 
up of unconsidered trifles/' gathering from the wreck of 
a majestical old mansion a picturesque and motley sal- 
vage ; now laying hands upon a portion of the cloistered 
colonnade, and now appropriating entire a very jewel of 
a porch, nor scrupling for a moment to avail himself of 
quaint old gable ends, carved window frames, fantastic 
coign&and such other waifs and strays as fell within bis 
reach, And, when he had combined all these, and when 
"boon nature" had beneficently hung a tapestry of 
shining ivy-leaves above the jutting porch, and gentle 
hands had trained some flowering parasites to weave a 
lavish net-work for the southern front ; and when the 
summer sunshine shone upon its walls, and birds were 
carolling in the elms behind, and bees were humming 
in and out of the garden flowers, and " the murmur of a 
hidden brook/' stealing along beneath dense hedge-rows, 
made happy music to the ear, you may believe that, to 
the eyes of such poor book-worms as ourselves, the Court 
appeared the very Hermitage a literary eremite would 
choose to wear away hi* summer hours in. 

Swallows delight to make it their abode, and never 
do we pass it by but these exquisite lines recur to 
mind : — 

" The temple-haunting martlet does approve, 
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breach 
Smells wooingly here ; no jutty, friese, 
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird 
Bath made his pendent bed and prooreant cradle. 
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed 
The air is delicate." 

For many a year the Court enjoyed the reputation 
of a haunted house. Children would speak of it with 
'bated breath ; and elder folks, belated in their evening 
walk, would hurry past it with averted eyes, and tremble 
if they heard the ivy rustle round the porch. And 
haunted most assuredly it is, (though happily, in the 
popular belief, the sprites have long ago been laid to 
rest,) by a spirit delicate as Ariel, gentle as the " lady 
wedded to the Moor/' and, more than this, imbued with 
all the earnest love and filial tenderness of a Cordelia. 
A warm eulogium, and vet not undeserved ; as you your- 
self would honestly confess upon acquaintance with its 
object Knowing her, you could not fail to love her ; 
and, loving her, you would be sure to superadd a feeling 
almost reverential for her devoted affection to the blind 
old man, her father,, who depends for his support in 
part on her exertions as a daily governess, in part upon 
the slender stipend he receives as organist at L . 

In the whole range of our acquaintance, we do not 
know of two such delightful associates as our organist 

an4 his Ptfrtty daughter. The old man so full of anec- 
dote ; so sprightly in his wit ; so copious, and withal so 
iustly discriminating, in his criticisms umb our litera- 
ture, with whose riches ftatharint'i reading has fami- 
liarized hunt so shrewd, and often times so happy, in his 
judgment or individual character — a judgment built 
upon no better basis than the inflexions of the voice ; 
so cheerful in the deprivation of his sight ; so enthusi- 
astic in his passion for " solemn sounds, sweet airs," and 
"old, old songs, the native music of the hills;" and so 
eager and thankful a listener to the comments of other! 
upon the fine arts — painting and statuary more especi- 
ally — and the beauty of the visible world, to him, alas ! 
"banned and barred, forbidden fare." And Kate — 
silver-tongued and soft-eyed Kate, — Kate with the lyric 
voice and cunning hand, — where should we look to find 
so pleasant a companion for the winter fire-side, or the 
summer ramble, as the fair daughter of our blind old 
organist ? Yet Katharine Penfold, with all her manifest 
and manifold attractions and accomplishments, is a con- 
firmed and steadfast spinster. Otters she has had by 
the dozen, and, unexceptionable as many of them have 
been, she has uniformly met them with a courteous 
but prompt denial. " She has no wish for change — no 
thought of abandoning her pleasant home — no room for 
other love within her heart than that she cherishes 
towards her father," and, blushing as she diffidently 
stammers forth her thanks, our village beauty, by the 
very sooth and gentle character of her denial, invariably 
augments the passion she has unwittingly inspired. 
Nothing, it seems, can win her from her celibate, or 
tempt her to exchange the arduous duties of her daily 
life, for the ease and competence which the prosperous 
circumstances of some of her suitors would certainly 
ensure her. He would be a proud and happy man who 
should confer his name on Katharfne Penfold, for he 
would be, indeed, 

" Most richly blest 
In the calm meekness of her woman's breast, 

Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies ; 
And for her household love, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things, 

Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities." 

Twic*e in the week Kate's homeward path lies through 

L ■, and, during all the pleasant summer months, at 

the coming on of twilight, her father meets her at the 
church, and tarries there till nightfall, filling that old 
and echoing pile with the throbbing music of the solemn 
organ, — improvising voluntaries, — weaving together 
fragments of masses, requiems, and symphonies, or re- 
velling in the jubilant notes of some high-soaring anthem 
song, in which the quivering voice of Katharine blends 
with the organ's tremulous swell, — floats along the 
vibrating and dusky air, — startles the sleeping echoes, — 
murmurs high up among the massive rafters of the roof,— 
rings audibly against the window panes — and, wandering 
outward through the porch, arrests the footsteps of the 
passer by, constraining him to pause and listen to the 
music of the blind old organist, and the carol, the clear j 
exulting carol, of his daughter's voice. And, when the 
gathering darkness warns Katharine and her father to 
depart, it is a chance if there be not some young and 
loving loiterer in the aisle below, waiting to proffer, with 
an eager importunity, his services as an escort home. 
And, if the offer be accepted, what a heavenly beauty is 
there in that tranquil summer night, to the buoyant 
fancy of the happy escort ! with what a rare consum- 
mate charm are even ordinary and familiar objects 
invested for the nonce J Think you that, to his ears, 
music was ever so divine as the sound of Katharine's 
voice mingling in the conversation which beguiles their 
walk 1 Think you that ever distance seemed so brief as 
that which intervenes between the village and tho 
"Court?" — that ever walk appeared so long, so weari- 
some, as the subsequent solitary retracing of his steps? 
Think you that, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, ever 

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star shone forth so brightly as shines the twinkling 
light from Katharine's casement, to which so often his 
averted glance is turned? or that the pitchy darkness of 
a winter's night seemed ever so profound as that which 
settles down when intermediate trees obscuie the gleam 
of that far-shining light 1 And think you, that, with 
bo many " shaping their services to her behests/' Kate's 
rtsolute adhesion to a single life will still remain un- 
shaken ? We must confess we entertain a half mistrustful 
feeling on this score. But, most assuredly, if ever so 
important an event as Katharine Penfold » marriage 
should take ©lace, we will not fail to duly notify the 
occurrence, with ample details of the ceremony, to the 
readers of our Village Annals. J, 8. 




1 have, from time to time, amused a leisure hour by 
committing to paper the following recollections of my 
boyish days. My reasons for doing so were briefly these. 
It struck me, that, while volume after volume had been 
devoted to " school-boy days/' " college life," Iks., 
the mysteries of that paradise of public-school-fearing 
mamas, a private tutor's, still remained unrepealed. 
In hastening tq avail myself of this (as far as I am aware) 
hitherto untried ground, I have had in view (in addition 
to my professed design of amusing myself, and — may 
I venture to hope itl — my readers also,) the following 
objects : — in the first place, to enlighten the aforesaid 
mamas as to the nature of the bed of roses to which 
they are so anxious to transplant their darlings, and 
to show some of the trials and temptations to which a 
lad, hitherto shielded from evil t>y all the hallowing 
influences of home, may (despite the best intentions on 
the part of his tutor) be exposed ; and, secondly, to 
prove to the " young gentlemen w themselves, how, by a 
little firmness and decision of character, and a sensible 
and manly adherence to the religious principles in which 
they have been brought up, they may, without forfeiting 
the regard of their companions, do good in their gene- 
ration, and lay the foundation of the character which it 
should be their aim to support through life ; viz. that of 
Christians and Gentlemen. How far I may have suc- 
ceeded in accomplishing these objects, it is not for me 
to decide. 

" Never forget, under any circumstances, to think 
and set like a gentleman, and don't exceed your allow- 
ance," said my father. " Mind you read your Bible, 
and remember what I have told you about wear- 
ing flannel waistcoats," cried my mother, And with their 
united " God bless you, my boy ! " still ringing in my 
caw, I found myself inside the stage coach, on my way 
to London. 

Now, I am well aware that the correct thing for a boy 
in my situation (i.e. leaving home for the first time) 
would be to foil back on my seat, and into a reverie, 
during which, utterly lost to all external impressions, 
I should entertain the thoughts and feelings of a well- 
informed man of thirty ; the same thoughts and feelings 
being clothed in the semi-poetic prose of a fashionable 
novel writer. Deeply, therefore, am I grieved at being 
forced both to set at nought so laudable an established 

precedent, and to expose my own degeneracy. But the 
truth must be tolcbftt ail hazards. The only feeling I ex- 
perienced, beyond a vague sense of loneliness and deso- 
lation, was one of great personal discomfort. It rained 
hard, so that a small stream of water, which descended 
from the roof of the coach as I entered it, had insinu- 
ated itself between one of the flannel waistcoats which 
formed so important an item in the maternal valedic- 
tion, and my skin, whence, endeavouring to carry out 
what a logician would call the " law of its being," by 
finding its own level, it placed me in the undesirable 
position of an involuntary disciple of the cold-water 
system taking a " sitz-bad." As to my thoughts, the 
reader shall have the full benefit of them, in the exact 
order in which thej flitted through my brain. 

First came in a vague desire to render my position 
more comfortable, ending in a forlorn hope that intense 
and continued sitting might, by some undefined process 
of evaporation, cure the evil This suggested a specu- 
lation, half pleasing and half painful, as to what would 
be my mother's feelings, could she be aware of the state 
of things ; the pleasure being the result of that mys- 
terious preternatural delight which a hoy always takes 
in every thing at all likely to injure his health, or en- 
danger his existence, and the pain arising from the know- 
ledge that there was now no one near me to care whether 
I was comfortable or not Again, these speculations 
merged into a sort of dreamy wonder, as to why a queer 
little old gentleman opposite (my sole fellow-traveller) 
went on grunting like a pig, at intervals of about a 
minute, though he was wide awake all the time ; and 
whether a small tuft of hair, on a mole at the tip of his 
nose, could haye anything to do with it At this point, 
my meditations were interrupted by the old gentleman 
himself, who, after a louder grunt than usual, gave vent 
to his feelings in the following speech, which was partly 
addressed to me and partly a soliloquy. " Umph ! 
going to school, my boy, eh1" then, in a lower tone, 
" wonder why I called him my boy, when he's no such 
thing : just like me ; umph I " I replied by informing 
him that I was not exactly going to school, (I was 
just fifteen, and the word " school" sounded deroga- 
tory to my dignity ;) but that, having been, up to the 
present time, educated at home by my lather, I was 
now on my way to complete my studies under the care 
of a private tutor, who only received six pupils, a very 
different thing from a school, as I took the liberty 
of insinuating, " Umph 1 different thing) You will 
cost more, learn less, and fancy yourself a man when 
you're a little boy ; that's the only difference 1 can see :" 
then came the aside, — " Snubbing the poor child, when 
he's too low already j just like me ; umph !" After 
which he relapsed into a silence which continued unin- 
terrupted until we reached London, save once, while we 
were changing horses, when he produced a flask with a 
silver top, and, taking a sip himself, asked me if I drank 
brandy. On my shaking my head, with a smile caused 
by what appeared to me the utter wildness and despera- 
tion of the notion, he muttered, " Umph 1 of course he 
doesn't ; how should he ?— just like me." 

In due eourse of time we reached the Old Bell Inn, 
Holborn, where the coach stopped, and where my trunk 
and myself were to be handed over to the tender mercies of 
the coachman of the "Rocket," a fast coach, ( I speak of the 
slow old days when railroads were unknown,) which then 
ran to Helmstone, the watering-place where my future 

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tutor, the Rev. Doctor Mildman, resided. Myfirst impres- 
sions of London are scarcely wortlP recording, for the 
simple reason that they consisted solely of intense and 
unmitigated surprise at everything and everybody I saw 
and heard ; which may be more readily believed when I 
mention the fact, that my preconceived notions of the 
metropolis led me to imagine, that perhaps it might be 
twice the size of the town nearest to my father's house, 
in short, almost as large as Orosvenor Square. 

Here I parted company with my fellow-traveller, who 
took leave of me thus*— " Umph ! well, good bye ; be a 
good boy — good man, you'd like me to say, I suppose; 
man indeed ! umph ! don't forget what your parents 
told you ; " then adding, " Of course he will, what's the 
use of telling him not \ just like me ;"— he dived into 
the recesses of a hackney coach, and disappeared. No- 
thing worthy of note occurred during my journey to 
Helmstone, where we arrived at about half-past four in 
the afternoon. My feelings of surprise and admiration 
were destined once more to be excited on this (to me) 
memorable day, as, in my way from the coach-office to 
Langdale Terrace, where Doctor Mildman resided, I 
beheld, for the first time, that most stupendous work of 
God, the mighty Ocean; which, alike in its wild resist- 
less freedom, and its miraculous obedience to the com- 
mand, " Thus far shalt thou come, and no further," bears 
at once the plainest print of its Almighty Creator's hand, 
while it affords a strong and convincing proof of His 

On knocking at the door of Doctor Mildman's house, 
( if the truth must be told, it was with a trembling hand 
I did so,) it was opened by a man-servant, whose sin- 
gularly plain features were characterised by an expres- 
sion alternating between extreme civility and an intense 
appreciation of the ludicrous. 

On mentioning my name, and asking if Doctor Mild- 
man was at home, he replied, " Yes, sir, master s in, sir ; 
so you're Mr. Pairlegh, sir, our new young gent, sir!" 
(here the ludicrous expression predominated;) "hope 
voull be comfortable, air," ( here he nearly burst into a 
laugh;) "show you into master's study, sir, directly," 
(here he became preternaturally grave again ;) and open- 
ing the study door, ushered me into the presence of the 
dreaded tutor. 

On my entrance, Doctor Mildman (for such I pre- 
sumed a middle-aged gentleman, the sole tenant of the 
apartment, to be ) rose from a library table, at which .he 
had been seated, and, shaking me kindly by the hand, 
inquired after the health of mv father and mother, what 
sort of journey I had had, and sundry other particulars 
of the like nature, evidently with the good-humoured 
design of putting me a little more at my ease ; for I have 
no doubt the trepidation I was well aware of feeling in- 
wardly, at finding myself tfte-d-t&e with a real live tutor, 
was written in very legible characters on my counte- 
nance. Doctor Mildman, whose appearance I studied 
with an anxious eye, was a gentlemanly looking man of 
five-and-forty, or thereabouts, with a high bald forehead, 
and good features, the prevailing expression of which, 
naturally mild and benevolent, was at times chequered 
by that look which all schoolmasters are sure sooner or 
later to acquire — a look which seems to say, " Now, sir, 
do you intend to mind me, or do you not ? " Had it not 
been for this, and for an appearance of irresolution about 
the mouth, he would have been a decidedly fine-looking 
man. While I was making these observations, he in- 
formed me that I had arrived just in time for dinner, 
and that the servant should show me to my sleeping 
apartment, whence, when I had sacrificed to the Graces, 
(as he was pleased to call dressing,) I was to descend to 
the drawing room, and be introduced to Mrs. Mildman 
and my future companions. 

My sleeping room, which was rather a small garret 
than otherwise, was furnished, as it appeared to me, with 
more I regard to economy than to the comfort of its 
inmate. At one end stood a small four-post bedstead, 
which, owing to some mysterious cause, chose to hold its | 

near fore-leg up in the air, and slightly advanced, 
thereby impressing the beholder with the idea that it 
was about to trot into the middle of the room. On in 
unpainted deal table stood a looking-glass, which, from 
a habit it had of altering and embellishing the face of 
any one who consulted it, must evidently have possessed 
great natural humour : an ancient wash-hand-stand, sup- 
porting a basin and towel, and a dissipated looking 
chair, completed the catalogue. 

Whilst I am engaged in preparing for the alarming 
ordeal I am so soon to undergo, allow me to present t 
slight sketch of myself, both mental and bodily, to the 
reader; and, as mind ought to take precedence of 
matter, I will attempt, as far as I am able after the 
lapse of time which has taken place, to paint my cha- 
racter in true colours, "neither extenuating nor setting 
down aught in malice." I was, then, as the phri« 
goes, "a very well-behaved young gentleman ;" that is, I 
had a great respect for all properly constituted authori- 
ties, and an extreme regard for the proprieties of life; 
was very particular about my shoes being clean, and my 
hat nicely brushed ; always saying " Thank you," when a 
servant handed me a plate, and, "May I trouble yout" 
when I asked for a bit of bread. In short, I bade fair in 
time to become a thorough old bachelor ; one of those 
unhappy mortals whose lives are alike a burthen to 
themselves and others, — men who, by magnifying the 
minor household miseries into events of importance, 
are uneasy and suspicious about things from the wash 
having been properly aired, and become low and 
anxious as the dreaded time approaches when clean 
sheets are inevitable ! My ideas of a private tutor 
being derived chiefly from "Sandford and Morton," and 
"Evenings at Home," were rather wide of the mark, 
leading me to expect that Dr. Mildman would impart 
instruction to us during long rambles over green fields, 
and in the form of moral allegories, to which we should 
listen with respectful attention and affectionate esteem. 
With regard to my outward man, or rather boy, I 
should have been obliged to have confined myself to 
such particulars as I could remember, namely, that I 
was tall for my age, but slightly built, and so thin, 
as often to provoke the application of such epithets as 
" hop-pole, " thread-paper," &c. ; had it not been that, 
in turning over some papers, a few days since, I stum* 
bled on a water-colour sketch of myself, which I well 
remember being taken by a young artist in the neigh* 
bourhood, just before I left home, in the hope of con- 
soling my mother for my departure. It represented a 
lad about fifteen, in a picturesque attitude, feeding 
a pony out of a very elegant little basket, with what 
appeared to be white currants, though I have every 
reason to believe they were meant for oats. The afore- 
said youth rejoiced in an open shirt collar and black 
ribbon a la Byron, curling hair of a dark chestnut 
colour, regular features, a high forehead, complexion 
like a girl's, very pink and white, and a pair of large 
blue eyes, engaged in regarding the white currant oat* 
with intense surprise, as well indeed they might 
Whether this young gentleman bore more resemblance 
to me, than the currants did to oats, I am, of course, 
unable to judge ; but, as the portrait represented a ven 
handsome boy, I hope none of my readers will be rude 
enough to doubt that it was a striking likeness. 

I now proceeded to render myself thoroughly wretched 
by attempting to extricate the articles necessary for I 
change of dress from the very bottom of my trunk 
where, according to the nature of such things, they hax 
hidden themselves ; grammars, lexicons, and other likj 
"Amenities of Literature," being the things that came t< 
hand most readily. Scarcely had I contrived to dls 
cover a wearable suit, when I was informed that dinnei 
was on the table ; so, hastily tumbling into my clothes 
and giving a final peep at the facetious looking-glaes, tin 
result of which was my twisting the bow of my ByroJ 
tie under my left ear, in the belief that I was therebj 
putting it straight, I rushed down stairs, just in time U 

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see the back of the last pupil disappear through the 
dining-room door. " Better late than never, Fairlegh; 
Mrs. Mildman, this is Fairlegh ; he can sit by you, Cole- 
man; — ' For what we are going to receive,' &c; — Thomas, 
the carving knife." Such was the address with which 
my tutor greeted my entrance, and, during its progress, 
I popped into a seat indicated by a sort of half wink 
from Thomas, resisting by a powerful act of self-control 
a sodden impulse which seized me, to rush out of the 
room, and do something between going to sea and 
taking prosaic acid ; not quite either, but partaking of 
the nature of both. " Take soup, Fairlegh ?" said Dr. 
Mildman. " Thank you, sir, if you please." " A plea- 
sant journey had you ?" inquired Mrs. Mildman. " Not 
any, I am much obliged to you/' I replied, thinking of 
the fish. This produced a total silence, during which 
the pupils exchanged glances, and Thomas concealed an 
illicit smile behind the bread basket. "Does your 
father," began Dr. Mildman in a very grave and deli- 
berate manner, "does your father shoot?" — "Boiled 
mutton, my dear." I replied, that he had given it up 
of late years, as the fatigue was too much for him. " Oh ! 
I was very fond of carrying a gun, — pepper, — when I was 
— a spoon— at Oxford, I could hit a — mashed potatoe — 
bird as well as most men ; yes, I was very sorry to give 
up my double barrel — ale, Thomas !" " You came inside, 
I believe V questioned Mrs. Mildman, a lady possessing 
a shadowy outline, indistinct features faintly charac- 
terised by. an indefinite expression, long ringlets of an 
almost impossible shade of whity-brown, and a com- 
plexion and general appearance only to be described 
by the term " washed out." " Tes, all the way ma'am." 
"Did you not dislike it very much? it creases one's 
gown so, unless it is a merino, or mousseline-de-laine, 
but one can't always wear them, you know." Not 
being in the least prepared with an answer suitable 
to this, I merely made what I intended to be an affir- 
mative grunt, in doing which a crumb of bread chose 
to go the wrong way, producing thereby a violent fit of 
coughing, in the agonies of which I seized and drank 
off Dr. Mildman's tumbler of ale, mistaking it for my 
own. The effect of this, my crowning gaucherie, was to 
call forth a languid smile on the countenance of the 
senior pupil, a tall young man, with dark hair, and 
a rather forbidding expression of face, which struggled 
only too successfully with an attempt to look exceed- 
ingly amiable ; which smile was repeated with variations 
by all the others. "Thomas, a clean glass," said Dr. 
Mildman ; but Thomas had evaporated suddenly, leaving 
no clue to his whereabouts, unless sundry mint sounds 
of suppressed laughter outside the door, indicating, as 
1 fended, his extreme appreciation of my unfortunate 
mistake, proceeded from him. It is, I believe, a gene- 
rally received axiom, that all mortal affairs must sooner 
or later come to an end ; at all events the dinner I have 
been describing did not form an exception to the rule. 
In due time Mrs. Mildman disappeared, after which 
Dr. Mildman addressed a remark or two about Greek 
tragedy to the tall pupil, which led to a dissertation on 
the merits of a gentleman named Prometheus, who, it 
seemed, was bound in some peculiar way, but whether 
this referred to his apprenticeship to some trade did 
not appear. This lasted about ten minutes, at the expi- 
ration of which the senior pupil "grinned horribly a 
ghastly smile" at the others, who instantly rose, and 
conveyed themselves out of the room with such rapidity, 
that I, being quite unprepared for such a proceeding, sat 
for a moment in silent amazement, and tnen, becoming 
suddenly alive to a sense of my situation, rushed fran- 
ticly after them. My speed was checked somewhat 
abruptly by a door at the end of the passage being 
violently slammed in my face, for which polite attention 
I was indebted to the philanthropy of the hindmost 
pupil, who therebv imposed upon me the agreeable task 
of feeling in the dark for a door-handle in an unknown 
locality. After fumbling for some time, in a state of 
the greatest bewilderment, I at length opened the 

door, and beheld the interior of the "pupil's room," 
which, for the benefit of such of my readers as may 
never have seen the like, I will now endeavour shortly 
to describe. 

The parlour devoted to the pupil's use was of a good 
size, and nearly square, and, like the cabin of a certain 
" ould Irish gentleman," appeared to be fitted up with 
"nothing at all for show. In three of the corners 
stood small tables covered with books and writing 
materials, for the use of Dr. Mildman and the two 
senior pupils ; in the fourth was a book-case. The centre 
of the room was occupied by a large square table, the 
common property of the other pupils ; while a carpet, 
"a little the worse for wear," and sundry veteran chairs, 
rather crazy from the treatment to which many genera- 
tions of pupils had subjected them, la chair being the 
favourite projectile in the event of a shindy,) completed 
the catalogue. Mr. Richard Cumberland, the senior 
pupil, was lounging in an easy attitude on one side 
of the fireplace; on the other stood, bolt upright, a lad 
rather older than myself, with a long nnm<>ftni^ face, 
and a set of arms and legs which appeared not to belong 
to one another. This worthy, as I soon learned, re- 
sponded to the name of Nathaniel Mullins, and usually 
served as the butt of the party, in the absence of newer 
or worthier game. Exactly in front of the fire, with his 
coat tails under his arms, and his legs extended like a 
pair of compasses, was stationed Mr. George Lawless, 
who, after being expelled from one of the upper forms 
at Eton, for some heroic exploit, which the head master 
could not be persuaded to view in its proper light, was 
sent to vegetate for a year or two at Dr. Mildman's, ere 
he proceeded to one of the universities. This gentleman 
was of rather a short thick-set figure, with a large head, 
and an expression of countenance resembling that of a 
bull when the animal " means mischief," and was sup- 
posed by his friends to be more thoroughly "wide 
awake" than any one of his years in the three king- 
doms. The quartette was completed by Mr. Fre4erick 
Coleman, a small lad, with a round merry face, who was 
perched on the back of a chair, with his feet resting 
on the hob, and his person so disposed as effectually to 
screen every ray of fire from Nathaniel Mullins. " You 
are not cold, Fairlegh ? Don't let me keep the fire from 
you," said Lawless, without, however, showing the slight- 
est intention of moving. " Not very, thank you." " Oh ! 
Suite right — glad to hear it; it's Mildman's wish that, 
uring the first half, no pupil should come on the hearth- 
rug. I made a point of conscience of it myself when 
I first came. The Spartans, you know, never allowed 
their little boys to do so, and even the Athenians, a 
much more luxurious people, always had their pinafores 
made of asbestos, or some such fire-proof stuff. You 
are well read in Walker's History of Greece, I hope?" 
I replied, that I was afraid I was not. " Never read 
' Hookeyus Magnus ? ' Tour father ought to be ashamed 
of himself for neglecting you so. Tou are aware, I sup- 
pose, that the Greeks had a different sort of fire to what 
we burn now-a-days? You've heard of Greek fire?" I 
answered that I had, but did not exactly understand 
what it meant. "Not know that, either? disgraceful I 
Well, it was a kind of way they had of flaring up in 
those times, a sort of ' light of other days/ which ena- 
bled them to give their friends a warm reception ; so 
much so, indeed, that their friends found it too warm 
sometimes, and latterly they usually reserved it for 
their enemies. Mind you remember all this, for it is 
one of the firet things old Sam will be sure to ask vou." 
Did my ears deceive me ? Could he have called the 
tutor, the dreaded tutor, "old Sam?" I trembled as I stood 
— plain, nnhonoured " Sam," as though he had spoken 
of a footman? The room turned round with me. Alas ! 
for Sandford and Merton, and affectionate and respect- 
ful esteem ! " But how's this?" continued Lawless, " we 
have forgotten to introduce you in form to your com- 
panions, and to enter your name in the books of the 
establishment; why, Cumberland, what were you think- 

Digitized by LjOOQLC 


ing of]" "Beg pardon," rejoined Cumberland, "1 
rtally wad so buried in thought, trying to solve that 
problem about bisecting the Siamese twins, and extract- 
ing the square roots of their back teeth, — you know itj 
Lawless? However, it is not too late, is itt Allow 
me to introduce you, Mr. Fairplay,"— "- legh, sir," inter- 
rupted I. " Ah, exactly ; well, then, Mr. Fairiegh> let 
me introduce this gentleman, Mr. George Lawless, who 
has, if I mistake not, been already trying, with his 
usual benevolence, to supply a few of your deficiencies $ 
he is, if he will allow me to say so, one of the most 
rising young men of his generation, one of the firmest 
propB of the glorious edifice of our rights and privilege." 
" A regular brick," interposed Coleman. " Hold your 
tongue, Freddy; little boys should be seen and net 
heard, as Tacitus tells us," said Cumberland, reprov- 
ingly. The only reply td this, if reply it cottld be 
called, was something whieh sounded te me like a 
muttered reference to the* Greek historian Walker, 
whom Lawless had so lately mentioned ; and Cumber- 
laud continued, " Tou will pay great attention to every 
thing Lawless tells you, and endeavour to improve by 
following his example, at a respectful distance— -ahem 1 
The gentleman on your right hand, Mr. Mullins, who Ib 
chiefly remarkable for looking (Mike a fool' put in 
Coleman, $&Uo voce,) before he leaps, so long, that in 

Saeral he postpones leaping altogether, and is in the 
bit of making C an ass of himself/ said Colemah) — 
really, Freddy, I am surprised at you,— of making two 
bites at a eherry — you will be better able to appreciate 
when you know more of him. As to my young Mend 
Freddy, here, his naturally good abilities and amiable 
temper ('Draw it mild, old fellow !' interrupted the young 
gentleman In question,) have interested us so much in 
his favour^ that we cannot but view with regret a habit 
he has of late fallen into, of turning every thing into 
ridicule, (' What a pity! 1 from the same individual,) and 
a lamentable addiction to the use of slang terms. Let 
me hope his association with such a polished young gen- 
tleman as Mr. Fairlegh may improve him in these par- 
ticulars." " Who drank Mildman's ale at dinner T asked 
Coleman j " if that's a specimen of his polished manners, 
I think mine take the shine out of them, rather," " I 
assure you," interrupted 1, eagerly, "I never was more 
distressed in my life ; it was quite a mistake." " Pretty 
good mistake, — Hodgson's pale ale for Muddytub's 
swipes,— eh, Mull.!" rejoined Coleman. "Prime," 
replied Mullins. " Well, now for entering your name ; 
that's important, you know," said Lawless j " you had 
better ring the bell, and tell Thomas to bring the 
books." I obeyed, and when Thomas made his appear- 
ance, informed him of my desire to enter my name 
in the books of the establishment, which I begged he 
would bring for that purpose. A look of bewilderment 
which came over his face on hearing my request, 
changed to an expression of intelligence, as, after 
receiving some masonic sign from Lawless, ne replied, 
"The books, sir? yes, sir; bring 'em directly, sir." 
After a few minutes he returned with two small, not 
over clean, books, ruled with blue lines ; one of these 
Lawless took from him, opened with much ceremony, 
and, covering the upper part of the page with a bit 
of blotting paper, pointed to a line, and desired me to 
write my name and age, as Well as the date of my 
arrival, upon it The same ceremony was repeated 
with the second. w That's all rteht : now let's see how 
it reads," said he, and, removing the blotting paper, read 
as follows :— •*' • Pair of Wellingtons, 1/. 15*. ; satin stock, 
25*.; cap ribbon for Sally Duster, 2*. 6rf.; box ot 
cigars, ll. 16>. (mem. shocking bad lot) — Nov. 5th, 
Francis Fairlegh, aged 15.'— So much for that ; now lefB 
see the next : — 'Five shirts, four pair of stockings, six 
pocket handkerchiefs, two pairs of white ducks— Nov. 
5th, Francis fairlegh, aged 15.'" Here his voice was 
drowned in a roar of laughter from the whole party 
assembled, Thomas included, during which the true 
state of the case dawned upon me, viz. — that I had, 

with much pomp and ceremony, entered my name, age, 
and the date of my arrival, in Mr. George Lawless's 
private account and washing books ! 

My thoughts, as I laid my aching head upon mj 
pillow that night} were not of the most enviable nature. 
Leaving for the first time the home where I had lived 
from childhood, and in which I had met with aflfectioa 
and kindness from all around me, had been a trial 
under which my fortitude would most assuredly hare 
given way, but for the brilliant picture my imagination 
had very obligingly sketched of the " happy family," of 
which 1 was about to become a member; in the fore- 
ground of which stood a group of fellow pupils, a 
united brotherhood of congenial souls, containing three 
bosom friends at the very least, anxiously awaiting my 
arrival, with outstretched arms of welcome. Now, how- 
ever, this last hope had failed me ; for> innocent (or, as 
Coleman would have termed it, gveen) as I then was, 1 
could not but perceive, that the mock tone of politeness 
assumed towards me by Cumberland and Lawless was 
merely a convenient cloak for impertinence, which 
could be throwi aside at any moment when a more 
open display of their pdwers of tormenting should seem 
advisable. In fact, (though I was little aware of the 
pleasures in store for me,) I had already seen enough 
to prove that the life of a private pupil was not exactly 
" all my fancy painted it ;" and, as the misery of leaving 
those I loved proved in its "sad reality " a much more 
Berious affair than I had imagined, the result of my 
cogitations was that I was a very unhappy boy, (I did 
not feel the smallest inclination to boast myself man 
at that moment,) and that, if something very much to 
my advantage did not turn up in the course of the next 
twenty-four hours, my friends would have the melan- 
choly satisfaction of depositing a broken heart, (which, 
on the principle of the Kilkenny cats, was all I expected 
would remain of me by that time,) in an early grave. 
Here my feelings becoming too many for me at the 
thought of my own funeral, I fairly gave up the strug- 
gle, and, bursting into a flood of tears, cried myself to 
sleep, like a child. E. S. 


HoiflTBiH butter is said to be (with the exception of 
that made in Holland proper) the best in the World ; 
and it may not be uninteresting to our readers to 
describe the process adopted in that duchy for making 
this valuable article. 

The duchy of Holstein, together with the d uchies of 
Schleswig and Lauenburg* lies in a favourable position 
for commerce* being bounded by the Elbe and the 
German Ocean on the West, and by the Baltic on 
the East, while a ship canal unites the two seas. The 
climate is temperate, inclining to moisture : it does not 
materially differ from that of the midland counties of 
England, except that the cold is more steady and 
severe in winter, while the summers are warmer and 
drier. The night-frosts of April and May are the most 
unfavourable circumstance affecting the interests of 
agriculture ; they are more felt than in England, because 
the he it of the sun in day time is greater, and the con- 
trast, therefore, the more prejudicial. The soil is rich, 
and often receives accessions from the depositions of the 
river Elbe, and other sources. 

The peculiarities of management in the Holstein 
dairy system relate to the buildings and Utensils ; to the 
time of milking, and number of hands employed ; to 
the management of the milk; and to the mode of 
working, salting; and packing the butter. These havy 
been described by Mr. Carr, in a communication to tlj^e 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 



Boyal Agricultural Society, and may be thus shortly 

The buildings on a large dairy are, a milk cellar, a 
butter cellar, a churning house, with a horse-mill 
adjoining, a cheese room, and a kitchen in which the 
utensils are washed, and food is cooked for all the 
persons immediately engaged in dairy work; to which 
are sometimes added their sleeping and eating apart- 
ments. The size and situation of the milk cellar are 
esteemed of great importance : it fronts the north, and 
is shaded from the southern sun by rows of trees, the 
elder being especially chosen, and planted as near the 
windows as possible, on account of the influence of that 
tree in keeping off insects. A thatched projecting roof 
affords protection from the heat, and great care is taken 
in choosing the site of a dairy, to place it out of the 
reach of anything which might taint the atmosphere. 
The size of the milk cellar is regulated by the number 
of cows, but it is generally calculated to contain the 
produce of four milkings. The milk dishes are always 
placed on the floor, and usually occupy a space of two 
feet square each ; thus the produce of one hundred cows, 
giving, on an average, eight quarts per day, would 
fill fifty milk dishes at each milking, and would re- 
quire a ground surface of 500 square feet, as there must 
unavoidably be spaces left to enable the dairy maids to 
go through their various operations. The floor is some- 
times flagged, but oftener of brick, neatly fitted, so that 
no water may lodge in the joints ; and always jgently 
inclined, with a grating at the lower end, to facilitate 
the washing of the floor, which Is never omitted to be 
dene twice a day, notwithstanding that every source of 
impurity is guarded against, and every drop that may 
fall at the time of the milk being strained, is carefully 
wiped up. A recent improvement is the dividing the 
floor into compartments with brick ledges, from three 
to four inches high, between which the milk dishes 
stand. The lower extremity of these compartments Is 
fitted with a small sluice, and twice a day they are filled 
with cold water from a pump, Thus the milk is 
preserved so cool as to prevent all approach to acidity 
for several hours longer than when placed on a dry 
floor. In sultry weather, a piece of pure ice is sometimes 
dropped into each milk pan, or a pailful of ice is placed 
in the dairy, which, by absorbing the heat, sensibly 
lowers the atmospheric temperature. 

The best milk cellars are sunk from three to four feet 
in the ground ; they are from sixteen to eighteen feet 
high, with an arched roof, and two rowB of windows, 
looking north, east, and west, to secure a thorough air. 
The lower range of windows consists of wooden trellis- 
work, provided inside with gauze frames, to exclude 
insects, and outsido with hanging shutters which can be 
lowered and elevated at pleasure. The upper range is 
furnished with glass sashes, which are exchanged for 
gauie frames when greater coolness is needed. 

The butter cellar also is light, airy, and cool : it is 
likewise sunk in the ground, and supplied by the same 
means as the milk cellar with plenty of pure air. Here 
the butter, when carried from the churning house, is 
worked, salted, and packed. The filled butter-easks are 
ranged on elean boards, a little elevated from the floor, 
to allow of a free passage of air, and are turned and 
wiped every week. 

Next in order Comes the Churning house, which has 
much the same arrangements as we find common in 
England. Of late years the perpendicular movement 

of the churn-staff has been exchanged for the rotatory, 
which is found to churn in a shorter time, and with 
less risk of oiling the butter. The cheese room, in 
these dairies, is placed as far as possible from both the 
milk and the butter cellars. 

The persons required to conduct the business of the 
dairy are, an overseer, a cooper, one or two cowherds, 
one or more swineherds, an upper dairywoman, and 
dairymaids in the proportion of one to every eighteen 
cows. The overseer takes care of the cattle, and is ex- - 
pected to know their diseases and the remedies. He Is 
responsible for the conduct of the swineherd and cow- 
herd, and superintends the fatting and rearing of calves. 
He also sees that the milking is thoroughly performed. 
When the number of cows does not exceed a hundred, 
he also undertakes the cooper's work, but, in large 
dairies, a cooper is kept in addition, who, besides his 
particular duties, assists in carrying the milk, feeding 
the cows when housed, &c. The wages of these two 
persons vary with the extent of the dairy, but may be 
averaged at sixty dollars for the first, and forty for the 
second, per annum. 

The dairymaids, besides milking, cleaning the ves- 
sels, &c.. work in the garden in summer, spin in winter, 
and wash, bake, brew, and cook, for the establishment, 
under the direction of the upper dairyWoman, who is 
by far the most important personage therein, as on 
her skill, attention, and diligence, depend, in great 
measure, both the quantity and quality of the product. 
She must not only thoroughly understand, but accurately 
observe, the moment when the milk should be creamed ; 
the degree of acidity it must attain in the cream-barrels; 
its temperature, whether requiring the addition of warm 
or cold water to the churn, as well as the subsequent 
operations of kneading, beating, salting, and packing, 
the butter. She must be punctiliously clean in her 
person and work, and require the same cleanliness of 
her maidens. In large establishments, the upper woman 
has full employment without milking, and even requires 
assistance in her own department; but in Smaller 
dairies she milks about ten cows. Her wages are from 
fifty-five to sixty dollars per annum, while her chief 
assistants receive twenty-two, and the rest eighteen 

During summer, the dairy people of Holstein rise at 
three, or even two, in the morning, if the weather be 
very hot ; for which exertion they are allowed two hours* 
sleep in the middle of the day. The milking is carried 
on In the field, generally commencing at four, and last- 
ing two hours. Each girl marks her own cows, by 
tying a particular coloured ribbon round their tails; 
and in some places each milker carries a string, on 
which a knot is made for every cow that is milked, to 
prevent any from being forgotten. The fields are large, 
and often at a great distance from the dairy, but the 
milk is safely and easily transported, by means of a 
long, low, four-wheeled, one-horse wagon, in the side 
bars of which, strong iron hooks are inserted, at such 
distances, that the milk-pails, containing from thirty to 
forty quarts each, may swing free of each other, and 
these, though filled nearly to the brim, are prevented 
spilling by merely having thin pieces of wood, about 
the size of a dinner plate, floating on the surface. The 
milk, when brought to the dairy, is immediately 
strained through a hair sieve into the vessels placed to 
receive it. These vessels are of various materials; 
they may be of wood, earthenware, copper tinned, zinc, 
cast iron lined with a china-like composition, or glass. 

In order to secure butter of a first-rate quality, the 
cream is removed from the milk before any acidity is 
perceptible, and it has been found that a cellar-temper- 
ature of from 60° to 62° Pahr. is the most favourable, 
allowing of a complete disseverment of the cream in 
thirty-six hours ; whereas a greater degree of warmth, 
while it quickens the separation, still more hastens the 
souring process, which injures both the quantity and 
quality of the butter. In a cold temperature the sepa- 

Digitized by G00gk 


ration ia effected much more slowly, so that forty-eight, 
or even sixty hours may be required ; this, however, is the 
longest period which can be given without the risk of 
imparting a rank unpleasant flavour to the butter. 
The first signs of acidity in milk are a very slight 
wrinkling of the cream, and a scarcely perceptible acid 
taste. The moment this is observed, the skimming 
begins, even if the milk have stood but twenty-four 
hours. The cream is poured through a hair sieve (which 
.is kept for this purpose, and never employed in straining 
the new milk) into large barrels, containing about two 
hundred and forty quarto each, in which it remains 
until it is sufficiently sour, beingstirred at intervals to 
prevent its becoming cheesy. The next object of the 
dairywoman's skill is the degree of warmth or coolness 
which must be imparted in order to secure good butter. 
In warm weather the churn is rinsed with the coldest 
water, in which a piece of pure ice is often thrown, and 
sometimes, though more rarely, cold spring-water is 
added to the cream about to be churned, wnich opera- 
tion is then always performed either very early in the 
morning, or late in the evening. In cold weather, on 
the contrary, warm water is applied both to rinsing the 
churn, and to the cream iteel£ 

The churning being completed, the butter is taken 
off by means of a large wooden ladle, and carried in a 
tub directly to the butter cellar, where it is cast into 
a large trough, hollowed out of the trunk of an oak or 
beech, very smoothly polished inside, and provided with 
a plug-hole at the lower extremity, beneath which 
a small tub is placed to receive the expressed milk. 
There the butter is slightly worked, and salted 
with the purest salt ; then moulded with a wooden 
ladle into a mass at the upper end of the trough, and 
left for some hours to soak and drain. In the evening 
it is thoroughly kneaded and beaten, or rather slapped, the 
dairy maid repeatedly lifting a piece of from three to 
four pounds, and slapping it with force against the 
trough, bo as to beat out all the milky particles ; and 
thus lump after lump being freed from extraneous matter, 
the whole mass is spread out, receives its full proportion 
of salt, about an ounce and one-eighth per pound, which 
is worked with the utmost care equally through it, and 
again moulded into one compact mass. The butter in 
Holstein is scarcely ever washed, as water is believed to 
rob it of its richness and flavour, and to be unfavourable 
to its preservation. 

When a quantity is ready sufficient to fill a cask, the 
several churnings are once more kneaded through, 
a very little fresh salt added, and the butter is packed 
in a barrel made of red beech wood, water-tight, which 
has been prepared by careful washing, and rubbing on 
the inside with salt Great care is taken that no space 
shall be left either between the layers of butter, or the 
sides of the cask. In large dairies a cask is never 
begun to be filled until it can be completed, as thus 
alone the butter can be exactly of the same flavour and 
colour throughout. 

The qualities of the excellent butter on which the 
Holsttiner so much prides himself, are, first, a fine even 
yellow colour, neither pale nor orange tinted ; secondly, 
a close waxy texture, in which extremely minute and 
perfectly transparent beads of brine are perceptible ; 
but if these drops be either large, or in the slightest 
degree tinged with milk colour, it is considered as 
marking an imperfect working of the butter, while an 
entirely dry tallowy appearance is equally disapproved ; 
thirdly, a fresh fragrant perfume, and a sweet kernelly 
taste ; fourthly, the quality of keeping for a considerable 
time without acquiring an old or rancid flavour. 

There are four classes or varieties of butter known in 
Holstein. These are named fresh-milk, May, Summer, 
and stubble butter, according to the season in which 
each is produced. The fresh-milk butter is that made 
in spring, between the time when the cows calve and 
their being turned out to pasture. The May butter is 
that produced in May, after the cows have been sent to 

grass. This is highly* prized for its peculiarly fine 
aroma when fresh, but is found not to keep well, and 
therefore, like the fresh-milk butter, is generally sent to 
market as it is made. The summer butter is made in 
June and July, and from that time until the cows are 
removed from pasture, the butter bears the name of 
stubble butter. Both these latter sorts, if properly 
made, keep well, and retain their fine flavour nearly un- 
impaired until the following spring. The small 
quantity produced between the time of the cows being 
housed and becoming dry, is called old milk butter, and 
is least of all esteemed. 

In winter, when the cows are confined to dry food, and 
the butter loses its fine yellow colour, artificial means 
are employed to remedy the defect ; for the Holstein 
merchants find, that without the usual degree of 
colouring, their butter will not in some markets, (as in 
Spain and Portugal,) fetch its accustomed price. The 
ingredients used for this purpose are a mixture of 
annotto and) turmeric, in the proportion of five ounces 
of the latter to one pound of the former. These 
ingredients are boiled in butter for half an hour, j 
stirring them frequently, and then straining through 
linen ; the preparation can then be kept for use. When 
butter is to be coloured, a portion of this mixture is 
melted over the fire : it is then poured into a hollow 
made in the mass of fresh churned butter, and by rapid 
stirring is intimately united with the butter imme- 
diately in contact with it, which being then spread 
over the whole mass, is, together with the requisite 
proportion of salt, carefully kneaded and worked through 
until no particle remains more highly coloured than 
another; and when smaller portions have thus been 
coloured from day to day, before a cask can be filled,the 
whole must, before packing, be kneaded once more, that 
no disparity of shade may disfigure it. 

The greater portion of the butter made in the dairies 
of Holstein and Schleswig, is bought up by the Ham- 
burgh merchants, though it is likewise sent in consider- 
able quantities from Kiel and other parts to England, 
Copenhagen, and the West Indies. 

We have already noticed the importance attached to 
every particular relating to the milk cellar, and the 
utensils employed in making this celebrated butter. 
The different materials used for milk pans were named, 
and we may now give some further notices from the 
same authority on this head. 

Various kinds of utensils have been tried in Hol- 
stein, in the hope of discovering how, in hot weather, 
more especially when a thunderstorm is gathering, the 
milk can be kept from too early- an acidity. Those in 
most general use are shallow wooden vessels, nearly of 
an equal diameter at top and bottom, containing, when 
full, about eight quarts, but in which, during summer, 
seldom more than six quarts are poured. The chief 
disadvantage of these vessels is the great labour and 
attention required to remove all acidity, which, in some 
states of the atmosphere, is almost unavoidable, and 
which, penetrating the pores of the wood, sometimes 
resists all the patient scrubbing, first, with hot water 
and small birch scrubbers, and secondly, with boiling 
water, and a hard round brush made of pig's bristles, 
with which every part of the utensil is carefully polished 
over. Sometimes the dairymaid is compelled to resort 
to washing in a lev of wood-ashes, or boiling, or even 
scorching over lighted chips, followed by countless rin- 
sings in pure spring water. To diminish this labour, 
the milk-vendors in towns paint the milking pails and 
dishes with a preparation of cinnabar, linseed-oil, and 
litharge; but this is expensive, for the vessels require 
three coats of the composition at first, and one yearly 
afterwards, and, after all, the milk, for some days after 
these vessels are brought into use, has a perceptible 
taste of paint Tinned copper milk-pans are very 
costly, and require careful watching, lest they should 
require re-tinning. The adnc pans are yet but little* 
known, and their value not sufficiently proved. Cast] 

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iron, lined with enamel, are durable and very clean, bat 
too expensive. Glass-pans have many opponents on ac- 
count of their brittleness. The testimony of Mr. Carr, 
however, is decidedly in favour of this material. He 
says, that in his dairy (which is supplied by 180 cows) 
the glass vessels have been used for four years. They 
are sixteen inches broad at the top, and twelve at the 
bottom : the glass is dark bottle green, transparent, and 
perfectly smooth, about one eighth of an inch thick, and 
furnished with a round rim at the upper edge, which 
makes it easy to retain a safe hold of them even when 
full. They would contain eight quarts, but never re- 
ceive more than six. " They cost eight-pence a-piece, and 
their durability may be estimated by the fact that, to 
encourage carefulness, each dairy maid is allowed one 
dollar extra, as pan-money, being bound at the same 
time to pay ten-pence for each one she breaks; yet 
hitherto," says Mr. Carr, " no girl has broken to the 
extent of her dollar." The great advantage of these 
vessels is in the saving of time, fuel, and labour they 
effect, for thev merely require to be washed in luke- 
warm water, then rinsed in cold water, and put in a rack 
to dry. Supposing, therefore, (which Mr. Carr does not 
admit,) that the milk, during a few weeks in summer, 
becomes sour sooner, and consequently throws up less 
cream, in glass than in wood, this disadvantage would 
be more than counterbalanced by the diminished ex- 
penditure of glass vessels, for, of course, where time and 
labour are saved, the number of domestics may be les- 
sened. 1 

Cow-houses in Holstein are generally twice as long 
-as broad, and calculated for four cows lengthways, stand- 
ing head to head, with passages between, floored with 
brick, and furnished with feeding and drinking troughs. 
One passage, if not both, is broad enough to admit a 
loaded hay-wagon, and is provided with large folding 
doors at each end, while there is also room behind the 
cattle sufficient to permit the manure being sledged out 
with a horse, without incommoding them. The lofty 
roof affords accommodation for hay and straw, which 
helps to keep the house warm in winter ; the doors are 
kept shut as much as possible during that season, suffi- 
cient light being admitted by small glazed windows. 
The quantity of food which can be afforded to the cows 
during winter, is ascertained as soon as the harvest re- 
turns are known. In plentiful seasons the calculation 
is, that each cow should be allowed three sacks of grain, 
(generally oats, of 1401b. each sack,) 8,9001bs. of straw, 
including bedding, and l,8001bs. of good hay; whilst 
for every hundred pounds of hay less, she receives 
twenty-five pounds of grain more, or vice versa. 

There are three distinct breeds of cattle in the duchies, 
the native cow, the marsh cow, and the Jutland cow. 
The first is middle-sized, with fine head and horns, and 
moderately thick neck; the colour generally red or 
brown, though often yellow, black, or spotted. The 
district of Angem produces the finest specimens of these 
cows, which are considered to yield more milk in pro- 
portion to the food they require, than any other kind. 
The marsh cows are large-boned, generally red, and 
requiring luxuriant pasture. They thrive well in the 
marshy delta of the Elbe, giving, when in full-milk, 
from twenty-four to thirty-two, or even forty quarts of 
milk daily ; but the return of butter is much smaller 
and of inferior quality to that of the Angeln cattle. 
The Jutland cow is fine in bone, rather lengthy than 
deep in body; but not generally long-legged. The 
usual colours are grey, dun, or black, or either of these 
spotted with white. They are distinguished for fatten- 
ing easily, and are not much prized for dairy purposes. 
The average quantity of milk obtained from good 
stock is estimated at from 2,000 to 8,000 quarts per 
annum, according to the food and care bestowed on the 

cows. The produce has been calculated thus— every 
100 lbs. of milk will give S± lbs. of butter, 6 lbs. of 
fresh cheese, 14 lbs. of butter-milk, (exclusive of the 
water added before and after churning,) and 76 lbs. of 
whey; and though the different circumstances affecting 
the cows cause a great variety in the results, still it is 
considered a fair average that fifteen quarts of milk are 
required for a pound of butter ; for although from some 
cows a pound may be obtained from twelve quarts ; yet, 
others, and even the same cows at different seasons, and 
with different food, (such as beet, or raw potatoes,) will 
not produce a pound of butter from less than seventeen 
or eighteen quarts. On the whole, it is esteemed a fair 
return in these duchies, when the average produce of the 
dairy amounts to 100 lbs. of butter, and 150 lbs. of 
cheese, per cow. 

The above particulars will, we doubt not, prove inter- 
esting to many of our readers, who may be concerned 
in the business of the dairy, and may, in some cases, 
supply a few hints of practical utility ; for there is 
much to admire, and something to copy, in the numerous 
precautions taken by the Iiolstein dairy-farmer, to 
insure an article of first-rate excellence as the product 
of his industry. 

(1) The recent liberation of giant from all duly, now affords mi- 
mfacturers an opportunity of supplying our dairy farms with mil k- 
pam made of that beautiful material. 

[First Notice.] 

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn. 

Mourn, widowed queen! forgotten Sion, mourn! 

Is this thy place? sad city! this thy throne, 

Where the wild detert rears its craggy stone, 

While suns unbleet their angry lustre fling, 

And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring ? 

Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed f 

Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued f 

No martial myriads muster in thy gate; 

No suppliant nations in thy temple wait ; 

No prophet-bards, thy glittering courts among, 

Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song: 

But lawless force, and meagre want are there, 

And the quick darting eye of restless fear ; 

While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, 

Folds his dark wing beneath the ivy shade. 

Bishop Hsbbju 

No other city in the world possesses such remarkable 
claims on our attention as Jerusalem. Its unequalled 
antiquity, dimly appearing in the uncertainty of very 
early tradition ; its eventful history in all ages; and its 
having so long been the scene of contention between 
Christian and infidel states; the prominent place it occu- 
pies in the sacred writings, as the Mountain of the Lord's 
House, where his glory visibly appeared ; and the feet of 
its having been the scene of the ministry, death, and 
resurrection of our blessed Lord ; these, and a hundred 
other unequalled claims, give to the Holy City an over- 
whelming importance, and invest it with an unrivalled 

The early history of Jerusalem is lost in the obscure 
mist of very remote ages. Some names of high autho- 
rity support the testimony of Josephus— who probably 
represented the tradition of the Jewish church— that 

(1) "The Holy City, or Historical and Topographical Notices of 
Jerusalem, with some account of its Antiquities, and of its present 
Condition. By the Rev. George Williams, m.a., Fellow of King's 
College, Cambridge, and late Chaplain to Bishop Alexander, at 
Jeiusalem. With illustrations, from sketches by the Rev. W. F. 
Witts, b.a., Fellow of King's College, Cambridge." London: John 
W. Parker. Svo. 1845. 

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the Salem of Melchieedec id identical with the Jerusa- 
lem of which David was the second founder. Nothing, 
however, is known of its origin, nor are writers agreed as 
to where it is first mentioned in holy Scripture. If the 
Jewish historian is correct in ascribing its foundation 
to Melchizedec, then may the Holy City boast of greater 
antiquity than any city in the world, and of a founder 
worthy of its future celebrity. 

Jerusalem is not named by that title in Scripture 
until the time arrived for the fulfilment of the promise 
to Abraham, when the Israelites, under the command of 
Joshua, entered upon the possession of their inheritance. 
The decisive victory obtained by Joshua over the com- 
bined army Was obtained on a plain distant about an 
hour from Jerusalem, and to the east of it. The king 
of Jerusalem, with his four allies, was taken and put to 
death ; but we do not read that his city, like theirs, fell 
into the hands of the conquerors at this time. It was 
reserved for David to bring it under complete subjec- 
tion. No sooner had he come into the undisputed 
sovereignty of the whole land, than he went to Jeru- 
salem, and took the castle of Zion out of the hands of 
the Jebusites. This fortress came now to be called 
" The City of David." He took up his abode in the 
castle, and enlarged the city to a size worthy of the 
dignity of a royal city, and of the seat of government. 

It is remarkable that in no part of canonical Scrip- 
ture is any mention made of the fate of that most 
sacred object of veneration — the ark of the covenant, 
with its holy contents. Jewish tradition informs us 
that it had no place in the second temple ; but its rate 
is nowhere recorded on any certain authority. The pre- 
vailing belief of the late Jewish church has been, that 
it is miraculously preserved in a secret chamber of most 
difficult access, in the sacred rock within the great 
mosque at Jerusalem, where it was deposited by King 
Josiah. But the chroniclers of the Crusades incline 
rather to the account referred to in the second book of 
the Maccabees, by which it is said to be securely hidden 
in a cave under Mount Nebo. 

It was a wise caution, and worthy of imitation, 
which withheld an old historian of the church from 
commenting en the events connected with the early 
ministry of our blessed Lord, and those firot years of 
the Christian church, of which it has pleased the divine 
Spirit to dictate an inspired history, lest the defects of 
a human narrative should detract from the dignity of 
actions which have been judged worthy of such a 
record. Eusebius informs us that the church at Jeru- 
salem, from the period of its establishment to the time 
of the Emperor Adrian, was governed by fifteen bishops 
in succession, the first of whom was St James the Just, 
the brother of our Lord, one of the Twelve, and the 
writer of that Catholic epistle which bears his name. 

The return of the Christians to Jerusalem is placed 
by all the ancient authorities immediately after its 
destruction by Titus. The church maintained its virgin 
purity until the presidency of Justus, who succeeded St. 
Simeon, when it became tainted with heretical pravity. 
From tnis period to the reign of Adrian the records are 
very scanty ; when the Jews were forbidden all access to 
the Holy City, which was again desecrated by the 
Romans. It was subsequently adorned with churches, 
and rendered illustrious as a Christian capital. Now 
occurred the important events of the recovery of the 
Holy Sepulchre of our Lord, and the erection of the 
Basilica of the Resurrection. Julian the Apostate en- 
couraged the Jews to rebuild the temple, but by a mirar 
culous interference they were prevented : fearful balls of 
fire broke forth with irresistible violence from near the 
foundations, scorched the workmen, and drove them 
from the place. In the seventh century Jerusalem was 
taken by Chosroes, king of Persia, when several of the 
churches, and part of the city, were destroyed. The 
sacred buildings having been restored, the Christian 
emperor Heraclius repaired in person to Jerusalem, 
carrying with him, according to Mr. Williams' narra- 

tive, the true cross ; the seals of the chest in which it 
was contained having continued unbroken during the 
Captivity. On the 14th of September, a.d. 629, a day 
still marked in the English calendar, and whose anni- 
versary is celebrated with especial solemnity in other 
churches of the west and east, Heraclius, having laid 
aside his royal apparel, entered the Holy City clothed 
in mean garments, and barefoot, carrying on his shoul- 
der the wood on which he supposed the redemption of 
the world had been accomplished. 

It was during this century that the Arabian prophet 
arose, whose victorious arms soon subdued bo many fair 
and fertile provinces. Jerusalem was besieged by his 
followers ; but the patriarch refused to treat with any 
but the Khalif himself. Omar accordingly repaired to 
the Holy City ; and they concluded articles of capitula- 
tion, remarkably favourable for the Christians. From 
this period they enjoyed peace and protection, until the 
accession to power of the family of Abbas, when they 
suffered from the caprice of that tyrannical and bloody 

In the year 1094, Peter, a French hermit, came as a 
pilgrim to the Holy City ; and his sympathy was awak- 
ened by the sufferings of the native church. He wit- 
nessed with righteous indignation the flagitious prac- 
tices of its ruthless oppressors, who exposed them to 
insults in their holy places, and profaned their churches, 
and the sacred vessels, and the altars. Peter the Hermit 
resolved on rousing the western part of Christendom. 
The cause was strenuously taken up by Pope Urban II. 
The watch- word— claiming the Divine sanction for the 
undertaking — Deu8 vult, ran like wildfire through the 
countries of the west ; and Europe was convulsed to its 
centre with preparations for the Holy War. Italy, 
France, and Germany, sent forth their willing thousands 
on this first Crusade : and the mighty hosts assembled 
under the command of their Christian princes and 
generals. Inspirited by an enthusiasm which shrunk 
from no danger, the gallant army crossed the barren 
plain, the broad river, the rocky mountain, and the 
sandy desert, until the remnant that had escaped the 
perils of the way sat down under the walls of the Holy 
City, June 7, 1099. 

They soon found, to their dismay, that all their effbrte 
would be fruitless without the aid of machines. Trees 
were felled at a distance of six or seven miles from the 
city, and conveyed on camels. All distinctions of rank 
were forgotten : high and low, rich and poor, emulated 
each other. Exposed to the oppressive heat of a Syrian 
sun, beneath which they toiled incessantly, the Chris- 
tian host underwent enormous suffering. To the horrors 
of drought, infection was shortly added, as many of 
the cattle had died for want of pasture. Having, after 
some weeks of arduous toil, completed their prepara- 
tions, the day was fixed for the assault, and it was 
resolved to spend some time in the most solemn reli- 
gious services, to bring down upon them the blessing 
of the Lord of Hosts. A procession of barefooted 
clergy was formed, who chanted solemn litanies ; and 
proceeding to the Mount of Olives, their zeal was 
stimulated by sermons from Peter the Hermit and 

At the dawn of day the soldiers of the Cross com- 
menced the assault. Animated by a like spirit, they 
proposed to themselves one of two alternatives — victory 
or martyrdom. Even the aged and the sick, the women 
and children, took part in the fight. Night parted the 
combatants, which gave place to the dawn of the memo- 
rable 15th of July, when the battle was again renewed. 
But, after seven hours' hard fighting, the courage of the 
weary and dispirited besiegers began to flag, when a 
timely apparition on Mount Olivet, said to have been 
distinctly seen by the Christian princeB, Duke Godfrey 
and his brother Eustachius, revived the dying embers 
of seal. The outworks were soon carried; and the 
valiant brothers, at the head of a chosen band, carried 
the wall, when the besieged flew in all directions. The 

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northern gates Were opened, end the Crusaders were 
masters of Jerusalem. It was on a Friday afternoon, at 
three o'clock, that the Holy City was taken ; and the 
chroniclers do not fail to remark, that it seemed divinely 
ordered that at the rery hour, and on the same day of 
the week, on which our Lord suffered, His followers 
were permitted to see the consummation of their wishes, 
in their triumph over His enemies. 

Hew stpang* and unaccountable it appears that the 
soldiers of the Cross — who, before commencing the siege, 
had sought in humiliation and penitence the blessing 
of the Almighty, and besought Him to go forth with 
their hosts— should now, flushed with victory, ana thirst- 
ing for blood, commit the most frightful and inhuman 
carnage ! The transition in the events of this day, fills, 
perhaps, the most striking page in the history of enthu- 
siasm. Having wearied themselves with slaughter, they 
laid aside their weapons, washed their blood-stained 
hands, and changed their garments ; — then, with bare 
feet, and the most striking outward indications of 
humble spirit and contrite heart, and singing hymns 
of praise, they proceeded to the venerable places which 
thelf Saviour had deigned to adorn and sanctify by Hii 
presence. Fain would We close the scene here ; but a 
darker tragedy of cold-blooded butchery was enacted 
three days after the capture of the city; when the 
surviving Moslems were most barbarously slaughtered 
in violation of the treaty. 

The first act of the assembled princes, after the burial 
of the dead and the purification of the Pity, was the 
election of a king; and the personal merits and im- 
portant services of Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, were not 
forgotten nor unrewarded. But the history of the Frank 
kingdom in Palestine can only be slightly glaneed at 
Its kings found their office one of great difficulty. The 
helmet was their crown, the coat-of-mail their robe of 
state, the heavens their royal canopy, and the saddle of 
the war-horse their throne. They extended their arms 
beyond the limits of the Holy Land. Only the warrior 
monks of the Temple, and the Knights of the Hospital 
of St. John, maintained their devotion to the Holy 
Sepulchre unimpaired, and earned for themselves a 
deathless fame. 

Bighty-eigbt years after the conquest of the Crusaders, 
the green and yellow banners of the Moslems were 
unfurled before the walls of Jerusalem, at the hour of 
evening prayer. Again was the Holy City wrested from 
the Christians; again did the Mohammedan banners 
flaunt over its towers and battlements* The whole 
of Christendom was dismayed at the fall of Jerusalem, 
while the infidelB rejoiced over the humbled Christians, 
and dragged, in dishonour, a golden cross through the 
streets. The subsequent history of Jerusalem may be 
told in few words. The defenceless state of the phoenix- 
like city was the protection of its inhabitants from 
further molestation during the expiring struggles of the 
Crusaders, whose ruin was hastened by the conquests of 
the first Mamluk sultan of Egypt, and consummated 
bv the fall of Acre before the victorious arms of Kelason. 
The historical importance of Jerusalem terminates with 
the expulsion of the Franks from the country. In 1642, 
the Ottoman sultan, Soleiman* erected the well-built 
walls round the city* which remain to this day. From 
this period, not a year has passed for three successive 
centuries, without disputes between the three principal 
Christian communities which divide the city. In 1808, 
the churches of the Resurrection and of the Holy Gol- 
gotha, with the buildings connected with them, were 
destroyed by fire. The heat was so excessive, that the 
marble columns which surrounded the circular building, 
in the centre of which Btood the Holy Grotto-, were 
completely pulverised. The molten lead from the 
immense dome which covers the Holy Sepulchre, poured 
down in torrents ; yet the Holy Cave itself received not 
the slightest injury, externally or internally; the silk 
hangings remained unscathed by the flames, the smell 
of fire not having passed upon them. The churches, &c. 

were restored in the following year, after the original 
models, at an immense expense, chiefly borne by the 
Greek Christians. 

Of late years, the Holy City has shared the fortunes 
of Syria ; having passed into the possession of Ibrahim 
Pasha in 1832, it was restored to the Ottoman power, 
after the memorable bombardment of Acre, in November 
1840. Formerly subject to the pashalic of Damascus, 
it has latterly enjoyed the distinction of a resident 
pasha ; but its tranquillity is liable, at any moment, to 
be disturbed bv the lawless sheiks of the country, whose 
violence Ibrahim Pasha was alone able to repress by the 
terrors of the sword. So low has she now fallen, who 
defied for months the arms of Imperial Rome ! 



Thb " merry month of Ma/* was the second in the 
old Alban Kalendar, the third in that of Romulus, and 
the fifth — the station it now holds — in the one insti- 
tuted by Numa Pompilius. It consisted of twenty-two 
dayB in the Alban, and of thirty-one in Romulus's Ka- 
lendar ; Kama deprived it of the odd day, which was 
restored by Julius Caesar. Some imagine that May was 
so called from the heathen goddess, Maia, the mother 
of Mercury. Brady says, that " Romulus continued to 
this month the name of Maius, out of respect to the 
senate appointed to assist him when he was elected 
king, who were distinguished by the epithet Majere*." 
The Romans deemed it to be under the protection of 
Apollo. In the middle age it was dedicated to St. 
Mary, "when men," writes Mr. Digby, " would devoutly 
repeat her office as they walked in some garden, bright 
with the sweet hue ef eastern sapphire that was spread 
over the serene aspect of the pure air, at the rising of 
the sun, and beheld the swans majestically resting on 
the limpid waters." 

Our Saxon forefathers termed it Tri-milki, because 
at this season " they began to milk their kine three 
times in the day." Me, an evident corruption of May, 
was the old Cornish name of this month. May was 
anciently represented as a beautiful youth, clothed in 
robes of white and green, embroidered with daffodils 
and hawthorn blossoms, his head crowned with white 
and damask roses, holding a lute in one hand, and bear- 
ing, on the fore finger of the other, a nightingale. 
Spenser sings : — 

" Then came fair May, the fairest maid on ground, 

Deek'd all with dainties of her season's pride, 
And throwing flower* out of her lap around : 

Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride, 
The twins of Leaa ; which on either side 

Supported her, lie to their sovereign Queen. 
Lord ! how all creatures laughed when her they spied, 

And lean'd and danced as they had rarish'd been ! 
And Cupid self about her fluttered all in green.'* 

There is an allusion in the above stansa to Castor and 
Pollux, or Gemini, into which sign the sun enters on 
the 20th of May. This month and its beauties have 
been a popular theme of poetical celebration; but in 
England* and particularly since we have reckoned by the 
new style, a great part of it is frequently yet too cold 
for a perfect enjoyment oftoature's loveliness, and some- 
times injury Is done to the flowers and young fruits, 
during itB course, by blights and chilling winds. A 
cold and windy May, however, is accounted favourable 
to the corn ; and an old Scotch proverb says : 

" A wet May and a Winnie 
Brings a fon stackyard and a Annie ;" 

implying that rain in this month, and dry winds after- 
wards, produce a plentiful crop, with that mark of excel- 
lence by which grain is usually judged of by connois- 

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seurs — a good feeling in the hand. There is another 
rhyme, which is not over flattering to the favourite 
month of the poets : 

u Till May be out 
Change na a clout." 
That is, thin not jour winter clothing till the end of 
May — " A good maxim," says Mr. Chambers, " if we are 
to put faith in the great father of modern medicine, 
Boerhaave, who, on being consulted as to the proper 
time for putting off flannel, is said to have answered, 
" On Midsummer night, and put it on again next morn- 

The latest summer birds of passage, the fern-owl, 
sedge and reed-warbler, spotted fly-catcher, field-lark, 
razor-bill, dobrel, red-backed shrike, hobby, and land- 
rail, arrive about the beginning of this month. Most 
of our birds are hatching and rearing their young, and 
the males are in full song. The sulphur, peacock, tor- 
toise-shell, and white cabbage butterflies are now on the 
wing; field-crickets, cock-chafers, grasshoppers, and 
glow-worms abound ; and towards the end of May the 
bees send forth their early swarms. Fruit gardens now 
afford an agreeable though immature product in the 
young gooseberries and currants. Trees put on all their 
verdure. The lilac and hawthorn bloom. The flowers 
of the oak, chestnut, Scotch-fir, beech, hornbeam, holly, 
and alder trees, begin to open, and the orchards dis- 
play all their charms in the delicate blush of the plum, 
cherry, pear, and apple blossoms. Meadows are thick 
with the bright young grass, " running into clouds of 
white and gold," with daisies and buttercups; the 
earth in woods is now shaded ; and in dank and dark 
places is spread with yellow and blue patches of prim- 
roses ; violets open among the mossy roots of old 
trees ; lilies of the valley " nod their welcome to the 
little wren as she twitters upon pendant branches," and 
the orchis, the honeysuckle, germander, and columbine 
are in beauty. The hyacinth, standard tulip, laburnum, 
guelder rose, peony, wallflower, rhododendron, rocket, 
and stock, marygold, and anemone, bloom in the garden. 

" All the earth is guv, 
Laud and. sea 

Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May, 
Does every beast keep holiday." 

About the 12th of this month, or old May-day, cows 
are turned out to pasture. Their milk soon becomes 
rich and copious, and cheese-making begins, particu- 
larly in Cheshire, Wiltshire, and Gloucestershire. Po- 
tatoes and cow-cabbage are planted ; trees are barked 
and felled, and corn is weeded. Children gather cow- 
slips for wine, and the gardener sows flower seeds, and 
weeds his borders. May is generally considered an 
unlucky time for the celebration of marriage. " This," 
says Brand, " is an idea which has been transmitted to 
us by our popish ancestors, and was borrowed by them 
from the ancients." 

May i.— £m\ ot $t. *|ilip an* St. 3am**. 


The celebration of the first of May is one of the oldest 
customs in the world, having come down from the ear- 
liest ages of Paganism, through various channels. " It 
must have been prompted/^ says a recent journalist, 
" by nature herself. The time of the young flower 
and leaf, and of all the promise which August fulfils, 
could not but impress the minds of the simplest people, 
and dispose them to joyful demonstrations in word and 
act." The sun, as the immediate author of the glories 
of the season, was now worshipped by the Celtic nations 
under the name of Baal ; hence the festival of Beltein, 
still faintly observed in Ireland and other places. The 

people kindle fires on the tops of their mountains on 
May-day, called Beal fires. This practice is to be traced 
in the mountainous and uncultivated parts of Cumber- 
land, amongst the Cheviots, and in many parts of Scot- 
land. Pennant relates,—" On the first of May, in the 
highlands, the herdsmen of every district hold their 
Beltein. They cut a square trench in the ground, 
leaving the turf in the middle. On that they make a 
fire of wood, on which they dress a large caudle of eggs, 
butter, oatmeal, and milk, and bring, besides the ingre- 
dients of the caudle, plenty of beer and whisky, for 
each of the company must contribute something. The 
rite begins by spilling some of the caudle on the ground, 
by way of libation. On that, every one takes a cake of 
oatmeal, on which are raised nine square knobs, each 
dedicated to some particular being, the supposed pre- 
server of their flocks and herds, or to some particular 
animal, the real destroyer of them. Each person then 
turns his face to the fire, breaks off a knob, and fling- 
ing it over his shoulder, says—' This I give to thee, 
preserve thou my sheep ; this I give to thee, preserve 
thou my horses ;' and so on. After that they use the same 
ceremony to the noxious animals. ' This I give to thee, 
fox ! spare thou my lambs ; this to thee, O hooded 
crow ! this to thee, eagle !' When the ceremony is 
over they dine on the caudle." Even in Ayrshire they 
kindled Baal's fire on the evening of May-day, till about 
the year 1790. 

The European observance of May-day is principally 
derived from the Romans, who have left traces of it in 
all the countries they subdued. It was their festival 
of Flora, at which there was great display of flowers, and 
where women danced, if we are to believe Juvenal, 
" only too enthusiastically." 

We gather from authentic sources that the Saxon 
ifildermen, going at this season to their Wittenage- 
mote, or Assembly of Wise Men, left their peasantry to 
a sort of saturnalia, in which they chose a king, who 
chose his queen. He wore an oaken, and she a hawthorn 
wreath; and together they gave laws to the rustic 
sports, during those sweet days of freedom. The May- 
pole too, or the Column of May, as it was then called, 
was the grand standard of justice amongst our ances- 
tors, in the kt-oommoks, or fields of May, and the garland 
hung on its top was the grand signal for convening the 
people. Here it was that they deposed or punished 
their governors, their barons, and kings. The first of 
May was also considered the boundary day that divided 
the confines of winter and summer, in allusion to which 
there was instituted a " sportful war" between two par- 
ties ; the one in defence of the continuance of winter, 
the other for bringing in the summer. The youth were 
divided into troops, the one in winter livery, the other 
in the gay habit of spring. The latter were always 
sure to obtain the victory, which they celebrated by car- 
rying triumphantly green branches with May-flowers, 
singing a song of joy, of which the burthen was in these 
or equivalent terms : 

" We hare brought the summer home." 
" In England," remarks a late writer, " we have to go 
back a couple of hundred years for the complete May- 
day ; since then it has gradually declined, and now it 
is almost extinct." When it was fully observed, " the 
business of the day began with the day itself," that i* 
to say, at midnight. Shakspeare, in hiB play of Henry 
VIII., mentions that it was impossible to make the 

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people sleep on May-morning. Immediately after twelre 
had struck they were all astir, wishing each other a 
merry May. They then repaired to some neighbour- 
ing wood, accompanied with music and the blowing of 
horns, where they broke down branches from the trees, 
and adorned them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. 
This done, they returned homewards about the time of 
sun-rise, and " made their doors and windows triumph 
in the flowery spoil." 

In Herrick's " Hesperides" is the following allusion 
to this practice : — 

a Come, my Corinna, come : and coming, mark 
How each field tarns a street, each street a park 

Made green and trimmed with trees : see bow 

Devotion gives each house a bough, 

Or branch : each porch, each door, ere this, 

An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove." 

Stubbs, in the " Anatomic of Abuses," 1585, tells us, 
"Against May, every parish, town, and village, assemble 
themselves together, both men, and women, and chil- 
dren, old and young, even all indifferently : and either 
all going together, or dividing themselves into compa- 
nies, they go, some to the woods and groves, some to 
the hills and mountains, some to one place, some to 
another, where they spend all the night in pastimes, 
and in the morning they return, bringing with them 
birch boughs, and branches of trees to deck their 
assemblies withal." Stow records of the citizens of 
London, that they "of all estates, lightly in every 
parish, or sometimes two or three parishes joining toge- 
ther, had their several Mayings, and did fetch in May- 
poles, with divers warlike shews, with good archers, 
morris-dancers, and other devices, for pastime all the 
day long, and towards the evening they had stage-plays 
and bonfires in the streets." In some places " the 
Mayers" brought home a garland suspended from a pole, 
round which they danced. In others there was an 
established May-pole for the village. " Their chiefest 
jewel," says Stubbs, " is their May-pole, which they 
bring home with great veneration, as thus: — they 
have twenty or forty yoke of oxen, every ox having a 
sweet nosegay of flowers tied on the tip of his horns; 
and these oxen draw home this May-pole, (this stinking 
idol, rather,) which is covered all over with flowers 
and herbs, wound round about with strings from the 
top to the bottom, and sometimes painted with variable 
colours, with two or three hundred men and women and 
children following it with great devotion; and thus 
being reared up with handkerchiefs and flags streaming 
on the top, they strew the ground about, bend green 
boughs about it, set up summer-halls, bowers, and 
arbours, hard by it And then fall they to banauet 
and feast, and leap and dance about it, as the heathen 
people did at the dedication of their idols, whereof this 
id a perfect pattern, or rather the thing itself." The May- 
pole was often as tall as the mast of a sloop of fifty 
tons, and properly fixed in a frame to keep it upright 
Once erected, it remained until nearly the end of the 
year, and was resorted to at all other seasons of festivity, 
as well as during May. Some even continued for years, 
beingmerely fresh ornamented, instead of being removed, 
as was the common practice. There were several through- 
out the city. Chaucer mentions the pole, or shaft in 
Leadenhall-street, higher than the steeple of the church 
of St Andrew-under-shaft Another, alluded to by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, stood nearly on the site of St 
Xary-le-Strand. Its successor was taken down in 1717, 
and conveyed to Wanstead, in Essex, where it became 
the support of a large telescope, the property of the 
Royal Society. Its original height was upwards of one 
hundred feet above the surface of the ground. It had 
, two gilt balls and a vane on the summit, and was deco- 

rated on public occasions with streamers and garlands. 
Pope thus perpetuates its remembrance : — 

" Amidst the area wide they took their stand, 
Where the tall May-pole once overlooked the Strand." 

" Besides the principal May-pole," says Brady, " others 
of less dimensions were likewise erected in our villages, 
to mark the place where refreshments were to be ob- 
tained ; hence the name of ale-stake is frequently to be 
met with in old authors, as signifying a May-pole." 
The regular " May-games" appear to hive been intro- 
duced about the beginning of the 15th century. It 
seems to have been a constant practice at their celebra- 
tion, to elect a Lord and Lady of the May, who presided 
over the sports, and were decorated with scarfs, ribands, 
and other fineries. To the latter of these personages, 
a poem, published in 1625, contains the following 
allusion : — 

" As I have seen the Lady of the May 
Set in an arbour (on a holiday) 
Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains 
Dance with their maidens to the bagpipe's strains." 

It was customary also to personify that darling of 
England's yeomanry, Bobin Hood, with several of his 
most noted associates : when this was the case, he pre- 
sided as Lord of the May, and a female, or rather, per- 
haps, a boy attired like a female, called the Maid Marian, 
his faithful mistress, was the Lady of the May. His 
companions were distinguished by the title of " Bobin 
Hood's men," and were also arrayed in appropriate 
dresses; their coats, hoods, and hose, were generally 
green. In the churchwardens' account for the parish of 
St Helen's, Abingdon, Berks, dated 1566, is the fol- 
lowing article : — " Paid for setting up Bobin Hood's 
bower, eighteen-pence;" that is, a bower for the recep- 
tion of the fictitious Bobin Hood and his company, 
belonging to the May-day pageant. The fool, the 
dragon, and the hobby-horse, likewise formed part of 
the show. The last was a compound figure ; the resem- 
blance of the head and tail of a horse, with a light 
wooden frame for the body, was attached to the person 
who was to perform the double character, covered with 
trappings reaching to the ground, so as to conceal the 
feet of the actor, and prevent it being seen that the 
supposed steed had none. Thus equipped, he was to 
prance about, imitating the curvetings and motions of 
a horse. This worthy and the dragon are excellently 
figured in Nash's " Mansions of England in the olden 
time," first series, Plate XXV.; and their gambols, 
together with the entire manner in which a " May-game " 
was anciently performed, will be found fully described 
in Strutt's Queenhoo Hall. Such were the " festivities 
of youth and nature " in which our monarchs, especially 
Henry VIII., Elizabeth, and James, used to participate 
In the reign of the " maiden Queen," pageant seemed 
to have arrived at its greatest height : and the May-day 
revelries were celebrated in their fullest manner, and so 
they continued, attracting the attention of the royal and 
noble, as well as vulgar, till the close of the reign of 
James I. In " The Progresses of Queen Elizabeth," is 
this entry :— " May 8th, 1602. On May-day, the Queen 
went a-Maying to Sir Richard. Buckley's, at Lewisham, 
some three or four miles off Greenwich." It is recorded 
by Hall that, in the seventh year of Henry VIII., that 
prince made a grand procession, with his queen, and 
many lords and ladies, from Greenwich to Shooter's-hill: 
" when, as they passed by the way, they espied a com- 
pany of tall yeomen, clothed all in green, with green 
hoods, and with bows and arrows, to the number of two 
hundred. One, being their chieftain, was called Bobin 
Hood, who required the King and all his company to 
stay and see his men shoot : whereunto the King grant- 
ing, Bobin Hood whistled, and all the two hundred 
archers shot off, loosing all at once; and when he 
whistled again, they likewise shot again : their arrows 
whistled by craft of the head, so that the noise was 
strange and loud, which greatly delighted the King,Queen, 




and their company." The royal retinue afterwards 
entered the " green wood," where, in arbours made 
with boughs, and decked with, flowers, they were enter- 
tained by Robin and his men " to their great content- 
ment, and had other pageants and pastimes." In 
Henry VI.'s time, the aldermen an4 sheriffs of London 
went to the Bishop of London's wood, in the parish of 
Stebenheath, and there had a worshipful dinner for 
themselves and other comers ; and Lydgate, the poet, a 
monk of Bury, sent them, by a pursuivant. " a. joyful 
commendation of that season, containing sixteen stanzas 
in metre royal." 

May-poles and games were altogether suppressed 
during the Great Rebellion. In April, 1644, there 
was an ordinance of both Houses, of Parliament " for 
taking down all and singular May-poles." At the Resto- 
ration these favourites of the populace, with all their 
jovial concomitants, were re-established. A May-pole, 
as we have remarked, remained in London until the 
beginning of the last century. About the same period, 
a learned foreigner relates that, " on the first of May, and 
the five and six days following, all the pretty young 
country girls that serve the town with milk, dress them- 
selves up very neatly, and borrow abundance of silver 
plate, whereof they make a pyramid, which they adorn 
with ribands and flowers, and carry upon their heads, 
instead of their common milk-pails. In this " equipage," 
accompanied by some of their fellow milkmaids, and a 
bagpipe or fiddle, they go from door to door, dancing 
before the houses of their customers, in the midst of 
boys and girls that follow them in troops, and every 
one gives them something. " The Mayings," says 
Strutt, in his " Sports and Pastimes," published so re- 
cently as 1801, " are in some sort yet kept up by the 
milkmaids at London, who go about the streets with 
their garlands and music, dancing." 

The milkmaids' " garland" of forty years ago, was a 
pyramidical frame, covered with damask, glittering on 
each side with polished silver plate, and adorned with 
knots of gay coloured ribands, and posies of fresh 
flowers, surmounted by a silver urn, or tankard. This 
" garland " being placed on a wooden frame, was carried 
by two men, sometimes preceded by a pipe and tabor, 
but more frequently by a fiddle ; the gayest milkmaids 
followed the music, others the "garland," and they 
stopped at their customers' doom, and danced, as above 
related. The plate in some of the " garlands" was very 
costly. It was usually borrowed for the occasion of 
the pawnbrokers, upon security. It was customary for 
milk people of less profitable walks to make a display 
of another kind, less gaudy in appearance, but better 
bespeaking their occupation, and more appropriate to 
the festival. A beautiful country girl, more gaily attired 
than on any other day, with flowers in her hat and on 
her bosom, led her cow, by a rope depending from its 
horns, decorated with garlands and ribands ; the horns, 
neck, and head of the animal were similarly ornamented ; 
a fine net, like those upon ladies' palfries, tastefully 
stuck with flowers, covered the cow's back, and even its 
tail was adorned with " products of the spring," and 
silken knots. The proprietress of the cow followed on 
one side, in holiday array, with a sprig in her country 
bonnet, a nosegay in her handkerchief, and ribands on 
her stomacher. Even these faint shadows of the original 
sports of May-day have subsequently faded away in the 
metropolis, so that the green glories and flowery fes- 
tivities of the season only survive, (if the grim show 
may not rather be deemed a posthumous pageanU in 
the Saturnalia of the chimney-sweeping imps, " wno," 
says Horace Smith, " with daubed visages, and bedizened 
in tinsel trumpery, hop around a faded Jack-in-the-green, 
to the dissonant clatter of their shovels and brushes." 

(To be concluded in our next.) 

aUrirfog for tfte Young. 


In no other part of England are there so many 
Druidieal monuments remaining as in Devon and 
Cornwall The discoveries wfrich Mr. Bray has 
made among the rocks at Dartmoor warrant the 
assertion, that, perhaps, there was not a more ce- 
lebrated station of Druidism than on Dartmoor ; 
one reason for this being the facilities which the 
masses of granite, everywhere strewn throughout 
the moor, and the tors that crowned the summit of 
every bill, afforded for the purpose of their altars, 
circles, obelisks, and logans ( or rocking stones ) . 

On the plains of Salisbury nature had done 
nothing for the grandeur of Druidism, and art had 
to do all. The architects of Egypt, who planned 
the Pyramids, like the Druids of Stonehenge, had a 
level country to contend with, and they gave to it 
the glory of mountains, as far as art may be said to 
imitate nature in the effects of her most stupendous 
works. On Dartmoor, the priests of the Britons 
appropriated the tors themselves as temples, so 
that what in level countries became the most im- 
posing object, was here considered as a matter of 
comparative indifference. In such scenes a Stone- 
henge would have dwindled, in comparison with the 
granite tors, into insignificance; it would have 
been as a pyramid at the foot of SuQwdpn. These 
tors are rocks which lie piled mass on mass in ho- 
rizontal strata. They are mostly found on the 
summits of the hills. 

Perhaps the most remarkable logan, or rocking- 
stone, is in Cornwall, on the top of a ledge of high 
rocks near the Land's End. Though from 80 to 100 
tons weight, it vibrates with the slightest pressure 
of the hand. In the month of April, in the year 
1824. whilst the " Nimble " cutter was lying off the 
Land's End, on the preventive service, the lieutenant 
in command, with fourteen of his men, after much 
perseverance, by means of hand pikes, and a hand 
screw, called by sailors jack in the box, succeeded in 
overthrowing this stone. This inconsiderate and 
mischievous act excited great indignation through- 
out Cornwall, and the officer received orders from 
the Admiralty to repair, if possible, and at his own 
expense, the mischief he had done ; and in Decem- 
ber in the same year, after three days' labour and 
exertion, the logan stone was replaced upon its 
point of equilibrium, and now rocks as before. Its 
replacement was a most impressive sight. Greater 
multitudes than were ever before collected on that 
wild coast were assembled to behold an attempt 
which required all the skill and coolness of British 
seamen. Large chain cables were fastened round 

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the stone, and attached to the blocks by which it 
was lifted ; and this was effected by the aid of three 
pair of large sheers, six capstans, worked by eight 
men each, and numerous pulleys. On the first day 
the rock was swung in the air by this complicated 
tackling, in the presence of about two thousand 
persons; much anxiety was expressed as to the 
success of the undertaking ; the ropes were much 
stretched, and the pulleys, the sheers, and the cap- 
stans, all shrieked and groaned ; the noise of the 
machinery being audible at some distance. Suffi- 
cient stays, however, were supplied to prevent 
accident, and the united efforts of sixty men were 
employed. On the third day, as t}ie rock hung 
suspended over the place from which it had been 
thrown down, the person who directed the proceed- 
ings asked of the spectators, whether it was in the 
exact position. One man, who seemed to speak with 
the certainty of accurate knowledge, and to whose 
judgment others deferred, advised a little movement 
4o one side, and, when his approbation was given, 
the stone was let down. As soon as this was done, 
the men who had been employed in replacing it fell 
on their knees and thanked God that no life had 
been lost ; and it was not till they rose from this 
act of spontaneous devotion, that the multitude, 
who haa been kept silent first by expectant sus- 
pense, and then by the devotional feelings whieh 
they partook, filled the air with their huzzas ! 


[In Original Poetry, the Name, veal or assume^, of the Author, If 
printed in 8mau Capitals under the title; w Selections, it Is 
printed in Italics at tne end.] 


Oft have I roam'd amid the hills 
With sense of awe that inly thrills, 

And listen'd to each sound 
Whieh gives so deep an emphasis 
To silence, and makes loneliness 

Seem only more profound. 
Fve pass'd through crowded street and mart, 
With yet more solitude of heart 

Than ever yet was mine, 
When, wandering "in untrodden ways," 
Wild nature to my awe-struck gaze 

Reveal'd her inner shrine. 

Fitful of mood — by impulse sway'd, 
How oft we make the sun and shade 

Which lights or dims our way ; 
VieVd through some medium of our own, 
Now seems our path with weeds o'ergrown, 

And now with roses gay. 

But yesterday, at Fancy's call, 
I sought the rushing waterfall, 

The wild and lonely glen ; 
To-morrow, it may be my mood, 
To mingle with the multitude, 

And list "the hum of men." 

Meanwhile, 'tis mine well-pleased to view, 
'Twixt both extremes a medium true, 

In this low cottage-home ; 

- — ■ — . i 

(1) See Engraving, page 1. 

For hew I find society, 

From noise, and strife, and tumult free,— 

Seclusion without gloom. 
Those little curly-pated elves, 
Blest in each other and themselves. 

Bight pleasant 'tis to see 
Glancing like sunbeams in and out 
The lewly porch, and round about 

The ancient household tree. 
And pleasant 'tis to greet the smile 
Of her who rules this domicile 

With firm but gentle sway ; 
To hear her busy step and tone, 
Which tell of household cares begun 

That end but with the day. 
Tis pleasantr too to stroll around 
The tiny plot of garden ground, 

Where all in gleaming row 
Sweet primroses, the spring's delight, 
And double daisies, red and white, 

And yellow wall-flowers grow. 
What if such homely view as this 
Awaken not the high-wrought bliss 

Which loftier scenes impart ! 
To better feelings sure it leads, 
If but to kindly thoughts ancl deeds, 

It prompt the feeling heart 

MicolUetton* •/the Luku, [by Jfa. //#,.] 


BY XA0H1L L— — . 

In t(ie Jong sunnier days, in the shade of green $teej, 

Whose thickly leaved branches teara stir in the tree**, 

When the bright son looks down from the cloudlets blue iky, 

In the depth of the wood live my children and I. 

We drink the pure itream at it babbles along, 

And refreshing to hear is its soft murmured song ; 

The greenest young branches we pluck tor our food, 

And crop the young herbage we find in the wood. 

We are blithesome and gay, when the winter is past, 

To think the warm sunshine is coming at last \ 

And our bright eyes keep watch o'er the violets' beds, 

To see 'mid the broad leaves the first purple heads ; 

And our hearts are made merry the whole of the day, 

When the snows of old Winter are melted away. 

The cuckoo we welcome, and see with delight 

Each feathery songster return from his flight. 

Then the hot summer comes, and we stand in the stream, 

With its bright gravelled bottom, and sound like a dream - } 

We watch the young saplings that darken and grow, 

Till each is beginning a shadow to throw. 

In the joy of sweet summer we run, skip, and bound, 

Tossing high oar proud antlers, scarce touching the groun J, 

Scarce brushing the dew-drops from off the long grass, 

Scarce stirring the scent of the flowers as we pass. 

We know well how the seasons are hastening on 

By the sounds and the sights that art come and are gone. 

Then the autumn arrives, with its bright coloured flowers, 
And its bunches of ripe nuts, that tumble in showers. 
If in passing or browsing we shake the green trees, 
Or they're stirred by the sound of the cool evening breeze. 
But the winter is coming with orisping white snow, 
And the bleak northern wind is preparing to blow, 
And the golden leaves falling teem softly to say, 
" The flowers and the sun-beams are going awn v." 

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Yet the winter win pass, and the young birdi will sing 
Another sweet song to another green spring. 

O when yonr cheek glows and your eye kindles bright, 
And your hearts are made glad by the merry sunlight, 
Then think of the deer in his forest of green, 
And the many sweet sights that he may have seen ; 
Nor neglect to make use of your time all yon can, 
For there is hat one spring-time that oometh to man. 


" I hare here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and 
have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties 
them."— Montaigne. 


A few yean ago it was a fatiguing tour of many 
weeks to reach the Falls of Niagara from Albany. We 
are now carried along at the rate of sixteen miles an 
hour, on a railway often supported on piles, through 
large swamps covered by aquatic trees and shrubs, or 
through dense forests, with occasional clearings, where 
orchards are planted by anticipation among the stumps, 
before they have even had time to run up a log-house. 
The traveller views with surprise, in the midst of so 
much unoccupied land, one flourishing town after an- 
other, such as Utica, Syracuse, and Auburn. At Roches- 
ter he admires the streets of large houses, inhabited by 
20,000 souls, where the first settler built his log-cabin in 
the wilderness only twenty-five years ago. At one point 
our train stopped at a handsome newly-built station- 
house, and, on looking out at one window, we saw a 
group of Indians of the Oneida tribe, lately the owners 
of the broad lands around, but now humbly offering for 
sale a few trinkets, such as baskets ornamented with 
porcupine quills, mocassins of moose-deer-skin, and 
boxes of birch bark. At the other window stood a 
well-dressed waiter, handing ice and confectionery. 
When we reflect that some single towns, of which the 
foundations were laid by persons still living, can already 
number a population equal to all the aboriginal hunter 
tribes who possessed the forest for hundreds of miles 
around, we soon cease to repine at the extraordinary 
revolution, however much we may commiserate the un- 
happy fete of the disinherited race.— LyelTs Travels in 
North America, 


With the utmost possible despatch a handsome letter 
arrived from the Emperor (of China), agreeing in full 
with H. B. M.'s plenipotentiary's demands, and stating 
that his Imperial Majesty regarded alike all outside and 
inside subjects ; and that due consideration should in 
future be shown to all of us. This instantly called forth a 
reply, to show that we by no means considered ourselves 
his subjects, outside or inside; the letter concluding 
with this remarkable sentence— " That H. B. Majesty 
owned no superior but God." This was given to the in- 
terpreter to translate into Chinese. After long consider- 
ation, they all declared, that such was the imperfection 
of the Chinese language, that the only way in which 
they could translate the sentence, was by placing the 
word "emperor" in Chinese for the word "God; M thus 
rendering the sense precisely and diametrically opposed 
to what was intended. Eventually, they found them- 
selves obliged to make use of the expression, "the 
Emperor's father;" paternal respect being carried so 
far, that this is the best expression they could adopt, 
which would in any way serve to explain their meaning. 
—Captain Ctmyngham's Recollections. 

the k*ho and the bibd-oatohsb. 
A few years before the King's death a dealer in singing 
birds from the Prussian part of the Hart z mountains came 
to Berlin, and called at the palace to express, in what he 
thought the best way, his thanks for the kindness which 
had been shown to his sons, who were soldiers — namely, 
by presenting to the King a so-called piping bull-finch, 
which, with enduring patience, he had taught to pipe 
the national air of "Hail ! Frederick William," fcc. 
throughout and correctly — this being the only instance 
of perfect success. The King smiled, and ordered the 
bird-fancier to be shown up, who having placed the cage 
containing the interesting songster on the table, the 
bird, after some kindly words from its music master, 
went through the practised air with all the solemnity of 
a cathedral priest, to the surprise and amusement of the 
King, whose delight increased when, on his saying, " Da 
Capo," the bird piped the air again. To the question, 
"What's the price V the pleased Papageno replied, 
" I won't take money for him ; but if my dear King 
will accept the bird, and love him, the bare thought of 
his piping in the King's chamber will make me the hap- 
piest man of our Harts, and the first bird-catcher in the 
world." The King felt good-will towards the honest 
fellow, who stood before him unabashed in his linen 
jacket ; and Timm, who had been summoned, received 
his Majesty's command to have a room prepared for the 
bird-fancier in the adjoining wing of the palace, who 
was more than once summoned into the King's presence, 
who inquired minutely as to the localities of his part of 
the Harts, and was amazed at his sensible ana frank 
replies. During this stay Timm adroitly obtained such 
knowledge of his private circumstances and views as 
contented the King. When the time for the man's 
departure came, Timm franked him by the diligence. 
Arrived at home, he found to his utter astonishment 
that the mortgage of 500 dollars on his house had been 
paid off by command of his Majesty. Thus was his 
unhoped-for but highest earthly desire accomplished 
whilst he was enjoying the sights in Berlin. — Van 
EylerCs Life of the late King of Prussia, 

Tests are, as it were, sauce, whereby we are recreated, 
that we may eat with more appetite ; but, as that were 
an absurd banquet in which there were few dishes of 
meat, and much variety of sauces, and that an unpleasant 
one where there were no sauce at all ; even so that life 
were spent idly, where nothing were but mirth and 
jollity; and again, that tedious and uncomfortable, where 
no pleasure or mirth were to be expected.— Sir T. More. 

If there is any one eminent criterion, which, above 
all the rest, distinguishes a wise government from an 
administration weak and improvident, it is this — "well 
to know the best time and manner of yielding what it 
is impossible to keep." — Burke. 

Whether I am praised or blamed, says a Chinese saxe, 
I make it fare to my advancement in virtue. Those who 
commend, I conceive to point out the way I ought to go ; 
those who blame me, as telling me the dangers I hare 


Glimpses of Village Life:— 

Katharine Penfold 2 

Frank Fairlegh; or, 8cenes 
from the Lift of a Prirate 

Pupil, Chap. 1 3 

The Dairies of Holstein 6 

The Holy City 9 

Popular x ear-Book, Nay ... 11 
Reading for the Young:— 
Druidical Monument*, 
(with Illustration) 14 


The Cottage Home, (with 

Illustration by Weigall) 15 
The Deer 15 


A Railway through the 

Wilderness 16 

A Dilemma! ..... 16 

The King and the Bird- 
Catcher 16 

London :— Published by T.B. Sh a srx, 15, Skinner-street, Snow-iull. 
Printed by R. Clat, Bread Street Hill. 

Digitized by LjOOQLC 


pontoon #taga^ne: 


No. 28.] 

MAY 9, 1846. 

Prioh l\d. 

Wat Croats of tfce %%\t of %oh 

(Set page 28. ) 


Poktbt and Imaginative literature must always suffer 
from translation ? and thus it is impossible duly to esti- 
mate their merit, where we cannot read them in their 
proper tongtfe. But no poets and imaginative writers 
have suffered so deeply in the estimation of our 
countrymen, as those of Germany. This, at first, ap- 
pears paradoxical; since the German language is 
exactly that, of all others, (unless we except the kindred 
dialectsj which is most easily transferred into our own, 
and the spirit of which has the closest affinity with the 
English. Bujt the cause is external to the nature of the 
subject. Prejudice was early excited against German 
literature, and on two very distinct grounds, moral and 
literary. About the time of the first French revolution, 
anarchical and immoral publications were imported from 
Germany no less than from France. German poetry, 
indeed, was born at a period when all departments of 
literature were more or less tainted with revolutionary 

principles, which were too hastily identified with the 
temper of the people ; and, as it was from translations 
of lax writings that the idea of German literature was 
mainly collected by the English public, it was con- 
cluded that all German fiction must be anarchical and 
immoral. It seems needless seriously to rebut such a 
conclusion. From the literature of our own country, 
probably the purest in the world, it would be easy to 
export an equivalent for our imported German impu- 
rities. It is to be admitted, however, that most of the 
noblest productions of German imagination have ap- 
peared since the period alluded to. Another objection 
was, that the literature of Germany was not modelled on 
the principles of those of Greece and Rome, which were 
supposed to be the casting-moulds of the English mind ; 
though, in reality, a French caricature was the standard, 
and the reader of Racine flattered himself that he un- 
derstood Sophocles. It was forgotten that the great 
charm of the Greek literature was its originality and 
freshness ; and that thus the qualities condemned in 




the German were really the very same which those in- 
consistent censors admired, in the Greek. 

These prejudices are not wholly passed away; tut a 
better and a juster spirit is awakening. The German 
writers gave an impulse to the poetry of our own country, 
and sent our language to its native resources. Words- 
worth, Southey, Coleridge, Scott, among the foremost — 
all more or less influenced by German literature — have 
rescued us from being mere imitators. We have, ac- 
cordingly, revised our condemnation of our German 
brethren, and sought to be better acquainted with them. 
The result has been that we have found our judgment as 
erroneous as it was rash. We find the imaginative lite- 
rature of Germany perhaps the noblest and most splen- 
did in the world, next to our own, and even more copious. 

It must be remembered that it is only of the imagina- 
tive part of German literature that we are here treating. 
With its refinements in metaphysics, and its melancholy 
wanderings in theology, we are not now concerned:. 
That portion which we have here been considering, is 
not only little affected by these things, but favourable 
and conducive to worthier objects. We are not un- 
aware that the case of Goethe, the most conspicuous of 
German imaginative writers, may be cited as an example 
against us. Tet, eminent as he is, he is but one; and 
from his voluminous writings much might be selected 
which would even strengthen our position. 

Our present purpose, however, is to apply these re- 
marks to the compositions of Schiller, a writer who 
disputes with Goethe himself the throne of German 
imagination, but whose imaginative writings, with 
little more than one early well-known exception, are 
conducive to pure amusement or elevated instruction. 
It is not, of course, our intention to present a formal 
criticism on compositions so varied and so numerous as 
Schiller's. We shall prefer illustrating, in broad outline, 
his more celebrated pieces, in connexion with a biogra- 
phical sketch, which will, with our brief extracts and 
criticisms, serve the purpose of mutual illustration. 
Our source will be chiefly a memoir, written in the year 
1812, by his friend K&rner of Dresden, father of the 
youthful patriot whose biography we have sketched in 
a former number. From the year 1785, he was one of 
Schiller's most intimate friends, and wrote from personal 
knowledge chiefly ; and, when this was not the case, from 
the most authentic information. This sketch we shall 
illustrate, where convenient, from the lives of Schiller, 
by Mr. Carlyle and Sir Bulwer Lytton ; the latter of 
whom is not only an able biographer, but an abbre- 
viator of those who had the best opportunities for the 
successful prosecution of the task. 

John Christopher Frederick Schiller, best known by 
the last of his Christian names, was born November^ 0, 
1759, at Marbach, on the Neckar, in the duchy.' of 
WUrttemburg. His father, John Caspar Schiller, was 
originally an army surgeon, who afterwards entered the 
army itself, and ended his days as manager of a very ex- 
tensive nursery-plantation at Ludwigsburg, belonging 
to the duke. Though not a well-educated man, he 
strove to compensate this defect by diligent labour; 
and a thanksgiving prayer of his is still extant, written 
after his son had attained celebrity, in which he com- 
memorates the fact, that, from the birth of his son, he 
had not ceased to pray that the deficiencies of his boys 
educational means might in some way be supplied to 
him. He appears to have been a good parent and a good 
man : nor were the excellencies of his wife inferior. She 
was affectionately attached to her husband and her 
children, and mutually and deeply beloved. Although 
of slender education, she could relish the religious poetry 
of Utz and Gellert. The early characteristics of young 
Schiller, as described by Kiirner, were piety, gentleness, 
and tenderness of conscience. He received the rudi- 
ments of his education at Lorch, a frontier village of the 
WUrttemburg territory, where his parents were residing 
from 1765 to 1768. His tutor here was a parochial 
minister, named Moser, after whom, perhaps, he drew 

the character of Pastor Moser, in " The Robbers." The 
son of this tutor was his earliest friend, and. is thought 
to have excited the desire which he long felt of entering 
the ministry. 

Schiller's poetical temperament was early developed. 
When scarcely past the period of infancy, it is said, he 
was missed during a thunderstorm. His father .sought 
him, and found him in a solitary place, on a branch of 
a tree, gazing on the scene. On being reprimanded, he 
is said to have replied, " The lightning was very beauti- 
ful, and I wished to see whence it came." Another 
anecdote of his childhood is better authenticated. At 
the age of nine years, he, and a friend of the like age, 
received two kreutzers apiece for repetition of their 
catechism in church. This money they resolved to 
invest fn a dish of curds and cream at Harteneck ; but 
here the young adventurers failed to obtain the desired 
delicacy, while the whole four kreutzers were demanded 
for a quarter cake of cheese, without bread ! Thus foiled, 
they proceeded to Neckarweihingen, where they acconK 
pushed their object for three kreutzers, havihjfone to 
spare for a bunch of grapes. On this, young Schiller 
ascended an eminence which overlooks both places, and 
uttered a grave poetical anathema on the barren land, 
and a like benediction on the region of cream. . y 

On his father's return to Ludwigsburg, young Schjller, 
then nine years old, first saw the interior of a theatre. 
This circumstance seemed at once to disclose his genius. 
From that moment, all his boyish sports had reference 
to the drama ; and he began to forecast plans for tra- 
gedies. Not that his inclination to the profession' of 
his early choice diminished. He only regarded dramatic 
literature and exhibitions as amusements and relaxa- 
tions from severer pursuits. He now continued his 
studies in a school at Ludwigsburg, where he was con- 
spicuous for energy, diligence, and activity of mind and 
body. The testimonials which he here received induced 
the duke to offer him a higher education, in •'seminary 
at Stuttgart, which he had lately founded. His father, 
who felt his obligations to the duke, and not least the 
favour which was now offered him,, reluctantly .aban- 
doned his original intention of indulging Jiis son with 
the profession of his wishes ; and young Schiller, still 
more reluctantly, in 1778, surrendered the Church for 
the bar. In the following year, when each-scholar of 
the establishment was called on to delineate his own 
character, he openly avowed " that he should deem him- 
self much happier if he could sefve his country as a 
divine." And he found legal studies so little attractive, 
that, on the addition of a medical school to the esta- 
blishment, in 1775, he availed himself oT the duke's 
permission to enrol himself a member. • 

During this period, Schiller was not inattentive to 
the revolution, or rather, creation, .then working in the 
poetry of Germany. The immense resources of the 
German language were, in great measure,' unknown to 
the Germans themselves. They studied and composed 
in the classical tongues, and, finding«their own so far 
removed from those which, they contemplated as the 
only models, regarded it as barbar6us;.or; if they con- 
descended to use it, endeavoured to cast both words and 
sentiments in a classical mould. But there were minds 
among them who were beginning to perceive tiiat the 
defects of German literature were not inherent, put the 
natural result of endeavouring to bind'a singularly 
free and original language to rules and imagery foreign 
to its genius. Klopstock, Utz, Leasing, Goethe, and 
Gerstenberg, were, in different manners and^degrees, of 
this order. From the study of -these, Schiller caught 
the spirit of a German originality, which he afterwards 
so remarkably contributed to advance. Becoming, 
about the same time, acquainted (through Wieland's 
translation) with the writings of Shakspeare, he studied 
them with avidity and delight ; though, as he acknow- 
ledges, with an imperfect comprehension of their depth. 
During his residence at Stuttgart, he had composed an 
epic, entitled " Moses," and a tragedy called " Cosmo de* 




Medici," part of which was afterwards worked up in " The 
Robbers." But he had no sooner decided on the medical 
profession, than he resolved to abandon poetry for two 
vears. He wrote a Latin treatise "On the Philosophy of 
Physiology," and defended a thesis " On the* Connexion 
of the Animal and Spiritual Natures in Man." He after- 
wards received an appointment as a military surgeon, and 
was esteemed able in his profession. On the expiration of 
his probational course, he held himself free to prosecute 
his favourite study. Accordingly, in the year 1780, the 
famous play of " The Robbers " saw the light. It was 
published at his own expense, no bookseller venturing 
to undertake it. 

Of the genius displayed in this work there can be but 
one opinion. The language of Coleridge concerning it 
is very remarkable : 

" Schiller ! that hour I would have wished to die, 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry ! 
That in no after-moment aught less vast 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout 
From the more withering scene dirainish'd past. 
Ah ! bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood, 
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye, 
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood, 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy !" 

Nevertheless, the defects of this work are not less glaring 
than its power is unquestionable ; nor are these defects 
literary only. The sympathies of the reader are in part 
enlisted on the side of crime ; while the whole spirit of 
the play but too well coincides with the tumultuous cha- 
racter of that period. And yet, we believe it is not less 
truly than finely said by Sir Bulwer Lytton, " Nothing 
could be further from the mind of the boy from whose un- 
practised hand came this rough Titan sketch, than to 
unsettle virtue, in his delineations of crime. Virtue 
was then, as it continued to the last, his ideal ; and if at 
the first he shook the statue on its pedestal, it was 
but from the rudeness of the caress that sought to warm 
it into life." Schiller's religious and virtuous feelings 
had, however, unconsciously to himself, been deteri- 
orated by the French sceptical writers. Voltaire moved 
his scorn and disgust ; but abhorrence of filth will not 
Rave us from pollution, if we permit its contact. Rousseau, 
insidious and visionary, harmonized but too well with 
the temperament of the earnest and contemplative youth; 
we know from the painful evidence of a little poem of 
Schiller's, bearing the name of that subtle anarch, that 
the influence had been but too effective ; and we trace 
the fact even more distinctly in the "Philosophical 
Letters." But it would seem from his own testimony, no 
less than from general evidence, that the military des- 
potism which was the constitution of the seminary at 
Stuttgart was the real creative principle of the " Rob- 
bers." It furnished Schiller's idea of order and govern- 
ment, while his own restlessness beneath that rigid 
coercion supplied his notion of liberty. It was from 
a translation of the" Robbers," that the general tendency 
of German literature, and of the drama particularly, 
was estimated in England. The " Robbers" could not 
long be a stranger to the stage. The Freiherr von 
Dalberg, manager of the theatre at Mannheim, produced 
it ou his boards in 1782. Schiller was present at the two 
first representations in January and May of that year. 
His absence, however, was known to the duke, and he 
was placed under arrest for a fortnight. 

But his misfortunes did not end here. A passage 
in the "Robbers" gave offence to the Orisons, 1 who 
complained to the duke against his subject The 
result was that Schiller was prohibited from all but 
professional writing, and commanded to abandon all 
connexion with other states. But Kbrner informs us 

(1) Ho had called their country " the thief 8 Athens." 

that, however exasperated at the time, he spoke in 
cooler moments kindly of the duke, and even justified 
his proceeding, which was not directed against the 
poet's genius, but his ill-taste. He, indeed, even dwelt 
warmly on the duke's paternal conduct, who gave him 
salutary advice and warning, and asked to see all his 
poetry. This was resolutely refused ; and the refusal, as 
might be expected, was not inoffensive. Yet the duke 
seems not to have renounced his interest in his young 
favourite, for no measures were taken against him or 
his familv on his subsequent departure from Stuttgart, 
and Schiller even paid a visit to them during the duke's 
life, without any molestation. For this departure he 
wished the duke's permission, and endeavoured, through 
his friend Dalberg, to obtain it ; but, impatient at the 
tediousness of the negotiations, he took advantage of the 
festivities occasioned by the visit of the Archduke Paul of 
Russia, in October, 1782, and left Stuttgart unperceived. 

His mother and sister were in the secret ; his father 
hab^ not been informed, lest loyalty and military subordi- 
nation should compel disclosure to the duke. There was 
another person left behind, in whom rumour attributes an 
interest to Schiller, though we are not informed whether 
she was apprised of his flight. This was the widow of 
a military officer, to whom, it is said, Schiller had paid 
his addresses, and who is by some supposed to be the 
" Laura" of his early poems. A youth named Streicher 
was the companion of his wanderings. All Schiller's for- 
tune lay in his tragedy, " The Conspiracy of Fiesco at 
Genoa," which he had, for the most part, composed when 
under arrest. Arrived at Mannheim, he recited his play 
to the stage-manager, Meier, (for Dalberg was at Stutt- 
gart,) with little success. His Swabian dialect, and 
unmelodious declamation, drove away all his audience 
save Inland, to whose personation his "Francis Moor" in 
"the Robbers" hadbeen deeply indebted. But, on a perusal, 
Meier acknowledged the real merit of "Fiesco," and agreed 
to produce it on the stage, if Schiller would make the 
requisite al terations. Meanwhile, Schiller and his friend 
were warned, by letters from Stuttgart, that their position 
at Mannheim was perilous. They accordingly once 
more took flight, and, after many hardships, took up 
their quarters at an inn at Oggersheim, where 
" Fiesco" was completed, and " Cabal and Love " begun. 
While at this place, Schiller was offered an asylum at 
Bauerbach, near Meinungen, an estate of Madame von 
Wollzogen, with whose sons he had studied at Stuttgart. 
Having disposed of his " Fiesco" to a bookseller, he 
with alacrity accepted the generous offer, and Streicher 
pursued his way to Hamburg. At Bauerbach. Schiller 
found repose and appliances for study ; finished " Cabal 
and Love," and sketched " Don Carlos." Of the two 
first of these works our limits will not permit us to 
speak. They are not without evidence of their author's 
genius ; but they are not less evidential of a taste which 
he lived to correct, and which, even at this period, he 
was correcting. 

" Don Carlos" is an immeasurable advance into the 
regions of taste and order. The wild irregular prose of 
the previous dramas is exchanged for rich and melo- 
dious blank heroic verse : the characters are no longer 
the crude imaginations of an undisciplined ardour, but 
finished studies from nature, in historical prototypes ; 
no longer bold distorted sketches, but richly, yet 
chastely, coloured pictures ; no longer flung together in 
heedless and disorderly profusion, but grouped with 
consummate art and sense of harmony. Yet it is pro- 
bable that the historian has in this work encroached 
upon the poet, and rendered it in parts obscure, and 
the connexion not always palpable. It is far less 
lucid than the great dramatic writings which formed 
the labours of Schiller's later days. A considerable 
interval elapsed between the composition of the first and 
last portions ; and, as the former was printed, the drama 
could not well be rewritten, to make it harmonize with 
Schiller's altered feelings and opinions ; but it spoke a 
great promise, and gave earnest of a faithful performance. 

Digitized by CjQOffiLg 



It has been ably translated by Francis Herbert Cot- 
trell, Esq. 

In 1785, Schiller took up bis residence at Mannheim, 
where he occupied himself with theatrical projects. 
From this place he wrote to Madame von Wollzogen, 
soliciting the hand of her daughter Charlotte ; but it 
appears that the attachment was not mutual, though 
Schiller always continued to be received in the most friend- 
ly manner by Madame von Wollzogen and her daughters. 
Perhaps the young lady herself regarded Schiller's as 
rather a preference than an affection, which she seems to 
have been justified in doing, as, not long after, he formed 
an attachment to Margaret, daughter of his friend 
Schwann the bookseller; a lady whom some suppose 
to have been his " Laura." During this period he wrote 
essays on dramatic subjects, edited a periodical called 
" The Rhenish Thalia," composed a poem called "Conrad 
of Swabia," and a second part of the "Robbers," to har- 
monize the incongruities of the first Some scenes of 
his " Don Carlos," appearing in the " Thalia," attracted 
the notice of the reigning Duke of Saxe Weimar, who 
was then on a visit to the court of the Landgrave of 
Hesse Darmstadt. The duke was 1 a lover of literature, 
and a poet, and he appointed Schiller a member of his 
council In March, 1785, Schiller removed to Leipzig, 
whore his poetry had prepared him many friends, and 
from this year commenced what is called " the second 
period" of Schiller's life. He spent the summer at a 
village in the neighbourhood, named Golis, surrounded 
by warm and affectionate hearts. It was during this 
time that he wrote his " Ode to Joy." But his joy was 
fated to be overclouded. He wrote to Schwann soliciting 
ai union with his daughter; a request to which he had no 
anticipation of refusal, as he and the young lady had 
corresponded ; and, had his destiny rested in her hands, 
there can be little doubt that he would not have been 
doomed to disappointment. The father, however, had 
apparently seen enough of Schiller's habits to infer 
that his wealth was not likely to equal his fame, and the 
poet was once more met with a refusal. 

From the friendly circle at Leipzig he removed to 
Dresden the same year. Here he completed his " Don 
Carlos," which he recast, as far as was practicable ; and 
is thought to have assimilated his princess Eboli to a cer- 
tain Fraulein A , a great beauty of that city. Here, 

too, he sketched the plan of a drama which he named 
"The Misanthrope ;" collected materials for a history of 
the revolt of the Netherlands, under Philip II.; and wrote 
his strange romance of "The Ghost Seer ;" a work sug- 
gested by the quackeries of Cagliostro. At this period, 
also, were written the " Philosophical Letters," before al- 
luded to. In 1787 he repaired to Weimar, where he was 
received with great enthusiasm by Herder and Wieland. 
Here he undertook the management of a periodical 
called "The German Mercury," which he enriched with 
several contributions in verse and prose, and to which 
he imparted new life and vigour. In the same year he 
received an invitation from Madame von Wollzogen to 
visit her at Meinungen. On his return thence he made a 
brief sojourn at Rudolstadt, but a memorable one, as it 
was here that he saw the Fraulein von Langefeld. This 
event called forth the following observations in a letter 
to a friend : 

" I require a medium through wliich to enjoy other pleasures. 
Friendship; taste, truth, and beauty would operate on me more 
powerfully, if an unbroken train of refined, beneficent, domestic 
sentiments attuned me to joy, and renewed the warmth of my 
torpid being. Hitherto I liave been an isolated stranger wan- 
dering about amid nature, and have possessed nothing of my 
own. I yearn for a political and domestic existence. For many 
years I have known no perfect happiness, not so much for want 
of opportunities, as because I rather tasted pleasures than enjoved 
them, and wanted that even, equable, ana gentle susceptibility 
which only the quiet of dotaesticlife bestows." 

It may be well imagined that Schiller repaired to 
Rudolstadt again, as early as possible. He spent the 
following summer there, and partly at Volkst&dt, in 

the same neighbourhood. Here he cultivated the 
friendship of the Langefeld family, and extended the 
circle of nis friends ; and during this sojourn he made 
his first acquaintance with Goethe. His first impression* 
of the great master of German imagination are thus 
detailed : — 

" On the whole, my truly high idea of Goethe has not been 
diminished by this personal intercourse ; but I doubt whether 
we shall ever approach very closely. Much wliich is yet inter- 
esting to me, much which is yet among my wishes and my hopes, 
has with him lived out its period. His whole being is, from the 
first, very differently constituted from mine ; his world is not 
mine. Our modes of imagination are essentially distinct. How- 
ever, no certain and well-grounded intimacy can result from 
such a meeting. Time will teach further. n 

And the lesson was soon imparted ; especially when 
it is considered that all Goethe's prejudices were revolted 
by " The Robbers," and that he had actually avoided 
an interview as long as possible. But in a few months 
Goethe's interest in Schiller, and high estimate of his 
abilities, were practically exemplified. " The Revolt of 
the Netherlands" had in part seen the light, and 
obtained high reputation for Schiller as a historian. 
By the efforts of Goethe, he was now appointed to the 
Chair of History in the University of Jena. 

In this situation Schiller laboured diligently, not 
only in reading and writing history, but also in the con- 
tinued cultivation of poetry. He was at all times, as 
such a mind might be expected to be, devoted to clas- 
sical literature. But, at this period, he imposed on 
himself a course of this study with a direct view to the 
purification of taste and style. He studied Homer pro- 
foundly, and with great delight. He translated into 
German the " Iphigeniain Aulis" (with the exception of 
the last scene), and a part of the " Phoenissee" of Euripides. 
His freedom, yet accuracy, particularly in the former of 
these translations, can scarcely be sufficiently admired. 
He projected a version of the " Agamemnon" of JSschylus, 
a play in which he much delighted. BUrger visited 
him at Weimar, in 17*89, and the Mends agreed to 
translate the same passage of Virgil, each in a metre of 
his own selection. These studies had a perceptible in- 
fluence on his poetry, particularly his dramas. 

Schiller's inaugural lecture at Jena was attended by 
an audience of more than 400 ; nor did it disappoint 
the high expectation which had been formed of it. 
His pen was now a ready and certain source of emolu- 
ment ; a " History of the Thirty Years* War," and a 
" German Plutarch," among various minor literary en- 
terprises, were put in preparation. He was admired 
and caressed by the great ; a pension was assigned him 
by the Duke of Saxe Weimar, and there was now no 
obstacle to the fulfilment of his dearest wishes. In 
February, 1790, he had the happiness to obtain the hand 
of the FraUlein von Langefeld. We here cast together, 
from several of his letters, as selected by Korner, passages 
descriptive of his enjoyment : — " It is quite another life, 
by the side of a beloved woman, from that which I led 
l>efore, so desolate and solitary; even in summer, I 
now, for the first time, enjoy beautiful Nature entirely, 
and live in her. All around me is arrayed in poetic 
forms, and within me, too, they are oft stirring. What 
a beautiful life am I now leading ! I gaze around me 
with joyful spirit, and my heart finds an everduring 
gentle satisfaction from without f my soul experiences 
such sweet support and refreshment ! My being moves 
in harmonious evenness ; not overstrained by pasaion, 
but calm and bright are the days which I pass. I look 
forward on my destiny with cheerful spirit ; standing 
at the goal of my desires, I am myself astonished tc 
think how all has succeeded beyond my expectations 
Destiny has overcome my difficulties, and brought m< 
smoothly to the end of my career. From the future 1 
have everv thing to hope. A few years, and I shall \W* 
in the full enjoyment of my mind ; nay, I even hope t* 
return to youth; the poet-life within me will restore itJ 

This language, while it proves the writer's affection 

D i g i tized by V^jOOQLC - 



purity, and elevation of mind, conveys a painful im- 
pression that his worldly happiness had rendered him 
insensible, at least for a time, to considerations which 
are not less needful in such moments than amid the 
darkest sorrows; but of which our ingratitude then 
most loses sight, when the love which would awaken 
them is most conspicuous. How little do we know our 
real happiness, when we envy the sunshine of Schiller's 
heart, or repine in the night of solitude and abandonment 1 
In that sunshine he had lost sight of the pole-star 
whereby alone his voyage could be directed, and which 
is ever clearest when other lights are away. In* his 
prosperity, like the Psalmist, he had said, " I shall 
never be moved : l " and, too probably, even without the 
pious acknowledgment which qualified that presumption, 
" Lord, by thy favour Thou hast made my mountain to 
stand strong." For though Schiller, under all circum- 
stances, had never lost the first fresh devotional feelings 
of his boyhood, and had admitted doubts with pain, 
and desired to escape from them, yet he could not be as 
one whose faith was stedfastly grounded on the sure 
rock of Revelation. Like the Psalmist, however, he 
could add, " Thou didst hide thy face, and I was troubled." 
Mercy and chastisement, each involved in the other, 
overtook him in the beginning of the following year. 
He was afflicted with a severe attack of disease of the 
chest, from which, though " fifteen years were added to 
his life," he never recovered. Hff whole frame was 
shattered ; and repeated relapses left him incapable of 
public lectures and every other laborious exertion. 
The diminution of income consequent on this calamity 
added much to its severity. But this was not long to 
be a part of his distress. The Crown Prince of Denmark, 
and the Count von Schimmelmann, offered him a salary 
of 1000 thalers for three years, with a delicacy and 
kindness, as he informs us, not less gratifying than the 
boon itself. Unembarrassed now by narrow circum- 
stances and public duties, he gave himself to the study 
of metaphysics. He had formed, at Jena, the friendship 
of Paalus, Schiitz, Hufeland, and Reinhold; and by 
them he was initiated in the philosophy of Kant, 
which he has exemplified in some of his prose writings. 
To this Sir Bulwer Lytton attributes the Christian con- 
viction and religions tone which, after this period (so 
marked as to be called " the third" in Schiller's Life), per- 
vades his compositions. We would rather ascribe it to 
the teaching of sickness, before the revelations of which 
the mists of sophistry and self-confidence vanish as in 
daylight The thirtieth Psalm will still afford illustra- 
tion. When David was troubled, his testimony was, 
I cried unto thee, Lord ; and unto the Lord 1 made 
application." It is impossible to doubt that Schiller 
did likewise ; or that he experienced a like return from 
Him who is unchangeable. 

(To be continued.) 



To the poet and the moralist, the most trifling object 
■ay afford an occasion of serious musing. A Cowper 
em write beautiful poetry "on finding the heel of a 
fee," and a Leigh Hunt can instruct and amuse by 
aafitaiions "on a stone." Let us try if something 

■sing or instructive cannot be said about a stile. 

These useful entrances to the fields have now in many 

•ess been made to give way to gates. Against this 
fapovement we at least vehemently protest Go on, 
js approvers, if ye will, to perforate rocks, fell trees, 
a* ievastate estates,— bring, if you will, the clatter and 
fafck of steanfcengincs into our most lovely rural re- 
*nis tnrp fhf beautiful cottages, with their picturesque 

(1) Psalm xxx. 6. 

roofs, and the mantles of jessamine, honeysuckle, or roses, 
into edifices without shape or name ; but, we entreat 
you, leave us our stiles. The male part of the commu- 
nity most certainly must wish their retention : and if 
any of the gentler sex desire their destruction, surely 
they cannot be the beautiful and the young. Where does a 
man find so befitting and easy an opportunity of exhi- 
biting his agility and tenderness, as at a stile 1 There 
are now no longer any dragons or lions from which dis- 
tressed damsels are to be delivered ; enchanted castles 
and amorous giants have now all disappeared even from 
the nursery ; but in some fortunate places, there still 
remain stiles. Gates, the modern substitutes, are 
strongly to be deprecated, for they forbid any exhibition 
of courtesy. Try it not, O enamoured reader ! for most 
assuredly, instead of expediting the passage of your 
beloved by opening for her the gate, you will only 
awkwardly contrive to force it against her side, and put 
her out of temper for the rest of the walk. But let us 
see how much better things are managed where the 
stiles have been suffered to remain. 

Let us, in fancy, follow for a few moments the couple 
who have just passed into yonder fields. With light, 
joyous step, lost in earnest conversation, they go trip- 
pingly over the grass, till their progress is stopped by 
the stile. The gentleman, pleased at the opportunity 
of displaying his legs and his nimbleness, steps gaily 
across : but the lady looks towards the barrier with tre- 
pidation. She declares that it will be impossible for 
her to cross. She has always disliked stiles, she says, 
and this is one of the worst she ever saw ; they had 
better return and go some other way. The cavalier 
gently insinuates, that, by a little exertion, he thinks it 
might be passed : a transverse piece of wood will greatly 
assist the descent ; and, besides, the other way is far less 
pleasant, and he is not certain whether by going in 
that direction they should not have to climb a five- 
barred gate. " And then," he adds, " am I not here to 
help you V The last two arguments are conclusive, 
and mentally ejaculating "anywhere with him !" -she 
places her foot on the lowest bar of the stile, Her inna- 
morato then takes her hand : it is necessary that he 
should grasp it firmly, for the terror of the lady might 
induce her to let go her hold : it is also necessary that 
she should lean on his shoulder when she has gained 
the top of the stile ; but was it necessary that she should 
remain so long in that position, or that he should place 
his arm around her as she descended ? However, she 
is now safely landed on the other side : and the frank 
familiarity with which she presses his arm may be caused 
by her grateful recollections of the perils from which he 
has just rescued her. But let us follow them a little 
further. The next stile is less lofty ; the top is broad 
and smooth ; a board beneath forms a convenient rest- 
ing-place for the feet : and the prospect around is de- 
lightful. Can they do otherwise than sit down upon it 
for a short time 1 The space is limited ; it is necessary, 
therefore, that they should sit close to each other : there 
is no support for the back ; the gentleman, therefore, 
cannot do otherwise than form one for his companion 
by placing his arm round her waist : and should he also 
grasp one of her hands, the circumstance may be attri- 
buted to his anxiety to save her from the slightest dan- 
ger of a fall. There, then, they sit, side by side, think- 
ing of course of nothing but the prospect : and there we 
must be contented to leave them, merely observing, that 
there are many worse situations in the world, than that 
of sharing with an amiable and virtuous woman the top 
of a stile. 

But there are other uses to which the stile is applied. 
Some unfortunate invalid totters out for a walk, accom- 
panied by his anxious wife. When he has walked some 
little distance, his strength begins to mil, and he be- 
comes anxious to return. "Try, mv dear," says the 
wife, encouragingly, " try to walk at least to the stile, 
and there you will be able to rest." The sufferer does 
so, and finds in the friendly stile a pleasant resting 

Digitized by Vj(J(jOlt: 



place, whence he is able to return, refreshed and ani- 
mated, to his home. 

And then, how useful is the stile to the poet or the 
philosopher ! Our ancestors, with a due regard for the 
interests of others, have often placed the stiles on spots 
which command beautiful prospects. Here, then, does the 
poet often sit and indulge in those delightful reveries 
which seem like a foretaste of Heaven — here does some 
" mute, inglorious Milton" frame those fantastical crea- 
tions which are to die away unknown to the world — and 
here the more fortunate votaries of the muse shape those 
glittering conceptions which are afterwards enshrined 
for immortality in an " Excursion" or a " Task." And 
here, too, the Christian moralist may have paused to 
gather some illustration to add point to his expositions 
of sacred truth. 

It must be confessed, however, that there are some 
inconveniences attached to the stile. In rainy weather, 
for instance, it gets slippery : you mount with confi- 
dence, but your descent is disastrous : and a bruised 
ancle is sometimes the result Another annoyance is, 
when you are passing through the fields in haste, to 
discover a large party making their way to the stile in 
an opposite direction. You hurry towards it in the 
hope of reaching it first : you are iust too late ; and have 
the satisfaction of standing still, looking like a sim- 
pleton, while one after another of your rivals proceeds 
slowly to ascend and descend ; each one, as he or she 
steps down before you, casting on you a compassionate 
glance, and seeming to say, " Have patience ; it will be 
your turn by-and-by; there are only a dozen of us !" 

It is with a pleasing melancholy that we gaze on the 
worn and worm-eaten top of the stile, and think of those 
who, in succession, have pressed it. There have the 
children from time immemorial gathered to play, choos- 
ing, with the usual perversity of childhood, the very 
Bpot where they are most in the way ; there has sat the 
aged, musing on the past with the calm of gratified de- 
Bire, or perhaps, envying the robust strength of those 
whom he sees labouring in the field ; there has sat the 
sentimentalist whom uncongenial society has driven to 
solitude, and who finds in the trees and the birds a more 
cheerful companionship than that of unsympathising 
man ; and thither, perhaps, has the wanderer returned 
after many years of toil and sorrow in other lands, to 
' retrace the haunts of his childhood, and to weep bitter 
tears over the well-remembered spot which he once en- 
joyed in the society of those at length estranged from 
him or dead. Yes ; across the stile may they all have 
passed ; and now beneath yonder grassy hillocks, "after 
life's fitful fever, they sleep well ;" while, perhaps, seated 
on the spot which they once occupied, the care-worn 
man looks towards their graves, and sighs for the day 
when he may be permitted to share in the repose which 
he trusts they are now enjoying ; or the ambitious en- 
thusiast, shrinking from the oblivion in which they 
seem to be enwrapped, pants to win for himself an im- 
mortality even on earth, by leaving behind him some- 
thing which may benefit his fellows, and which the 
world shall "not willingly let die." 

M. N. 





Amongst the minor phenomena which are hourly 
occurring in the details of every-day life, although we 
are seldom sufficiently dose observers to perceive them, 
there is none more remarkable than the change wrought 
in our feelings and ideas by a good night's rest ; and never 
was this change more strikingly exemplified than on the 
present occasion. 1 had fallen asleep in the act of per- 
forming the character of chief-mourner at my own 
funeral, and I awoke in the highest possible health and 

spirits, with a strong determination never to "say die*' 
under any conceivable aspect aflairs might assume. 
" What in the world," said I to myself, as I sprang out 
of bed and began to dress, — "what in the world was 
there for me to make myself so miserable about last 
night 1 Suppose Cumberland and Lawless should laugh 
at, and tease me a little at first, what does it signify .' 
I must take it in good part as long as I can, and if that 
does not do, I must speak seriously to them, — tell them 
they really annoy me, and make me uncomfortable, and 
then, of course, they will leave off. As to Coleman, I 

am certain Well, it's very odd !" — This last remark 

was elicited by the fact, that a search I had been 
making for some minutes, in every place possible and 
impossible, for that indispensable article of male attire, 
my trowsers, had proved wholly ineffectual, although I 
had a distinct recollection of having placed them care- 
fully on a chair by my bedside, the previous night 
There, however, they certainly were not now, nor, as far 
as I could discover, any where else in the room. Under 
these circumstances ringing the bell for Thomas seemed 
advisable, as it occurred to me that he had probably 
abstracted the missing garment for the purpose of 
brushing. In a few moments he answered the sum- 
mons, and, with a face bright from the combined effect* 
of a light heart and a severe application of yellow soap, 
inquired, "if I had rung for my shaving-water!" 
"Why, no — I do %ot — that is, it was not^I seldom 
shave of a morning ; for the fact is, I have no beard to 
shave as yet." " Oh, sir, that's no reason ; there's Mr. 
Coleman's not got the leastest westige of a hair upon his 
chin, and he's been mowing away with the greatest of 
persewerance for the last six months, and sends his 
rashier to be ground every three weeks, regilar, in order 
to get a. beard — but what can I do for you, sir?" 
" Why," replied I, trying to look grave, " it's very odd, 
but I have lost — that is, I can't find — my trowsers any- 
where. I put them on this chair last night, 1 know." 
" Umph ! that's sing'lar, too ; I was just a coming up 
stairs to brush 'em for you ; you did not hear any body 
come into your room, after you went to bed, did you, 
sir V " No ; but then I was so tired, I slept as sound 
as a top." " Ah 1 I shouldn't much wonder if Mr. 
Coleman knew something about 'em : perhaps you had 
better put on another pair, and if I can find 'em, 111 
bring 'em back after breakfast." This was very good 
advice, and therefore, of course, impossible to follow ; 
for, on examining my trunk, lo and behold ! dress 
pantaloons, white ducks, "et hdc genus omne," had 
totally disappeared, and I seemed to stand a very good 
chance of making my first appearance at my tutor's 
breakfast table, in an extemporary " kilt," improvised for 
the occasion, out of two towels and a checked neckcloth. 
In this extremity Thomas, as a last resource, knocked at 
Coleman's door, informing him, that I should be glad 
to speak to him,— a proceeding speedily followed by 
the appearance of that gentleman in propria persona. 
" Good morning, Fairlegh ! hope you slept well. You are 
looking cold ; had not you better get some clothes on I 
Mildman will be down in a minute, and there will be 
a pretty row if we are not all there ; he's precious 
particular, I can tell you." " That is exactly what I 
want to do," replied I, " but the feet is, somebody has 
taken away all my trowBers in the night" " Bless me ! 
you don't say so ) another case of pilfering ! this is get- 
ting serious : I will call Lawless. — I say, Lawless ! * 
" Now, what's the row V was the reply, " have the French 
landed 1 or is the kitchen chimney on fire 1 What do I 
see? Fairlegh, lightly and elegantly attired in nothing 
but his shirt, and Thomas standing like Niobe, the pic- 
ture of woe, — here's a sight for a father !" " Why ! it's 
a bad job," said Coleman; " here's another case of pilfer- 
ing; Fairlegh has had all his trowsers stolen in the 
night." " You don't say so !" rejoined Lawless : " what 
is to be done 1 It must be stopped somehow : we had 
better tell him what we know about it. Thomas, leave 
the room." Thomas obeyed, giving me a look of great 

Digitized by VjUO^JIc 



intelligence as he went, and Lawless continued, "I am 
afraid you will hardly believe us, — it is really a most 
unheard-of thing, — but we hare lately missed a great 
many of our clothes, and we have every reason to sus- 
pect, (I declare I can scarcely bear to mention it,) that 
Mildman takes them himself, fancying, of course, that 
being placed by his position so entirely above suspicion, 
he may do it with impunity. We have suspected this 
for some time, and lately one or two circumstances,— old 
clothesmen having been seen leaving his study, a pawn- 
ticket falling out of his waistcoat pocket one day as he 
was going out of our parlour, kc, — have put the matter 
beyond a doubt ; but he has never gone to such an ex- 
tent as this before. Mind you do not mention a word 
of this to Thomas, for, bad as Mildman is, one would not 
wish to show him up before his own servant" " Good 
gracious !" cried I, "I had no idea such things ever 
could take place, and he a clergyman, too !— dreadful ! 
but what in the world am I to do 1 1 have not got a pair 
of trowserB to put on. Oh ! if he would but have taken 
any thing else, even my watch, instead, I should not have 
minded— what shall I do?" "Why really," replied 
Coleman, " it is not so easy to advise : you can't go 
down as you are, that's certain. Suppose you were to 
wrap yourself up in a blanket, and go and tell him you 
have found him out, and that you will call a policeman 
if he does not give you your clothes at once ; have it 
out with him fairly and check the thing effectually 
once for all — eh V " No, that won't do," said Lawless, 
" I should say, sit down quietly, (how cold you must be !) 
and write him a civil note, saying, that you had reason 
to believe he had borrowed your trowsers, (that's the 
way I should put iU and that you would be very much 
gratified by his sending you a pair to wear to-day ; and 
then you can stick in something about your being always 
accustomed to live with people who were particular 
about dress, and that you are sorry you are obliged 
to trouble him about such a trifle; in fact, do a bit 
of the respectful, and then pull up short with ' obedient 
pupil/ &c" " Aye, that's the way to do it," said Cole- 
man, "in the shop-fellow's style, you know, — much 
obliged for past favours, and hope for a continuance of 
the same,— more than you do, though, Fairlegh, I should 
fancy, but there goes the bell— I am off," and away he 
scudded, followed by Lawless humming, — 

M Brian CLynn had no breeches to wear, 
So he took an old catskin and made him a pair." 

Here was a pretty state of things : the breakfast bell had 
rang, and I, who considered being too late a crime of 
the first magnitude, was unable even to begin dressing, 
from the melancholy fact that every pair of trowsers I 
had in the world had disappeared ; while, to complete 
my misery, I was led to believe the delinquent who had 
abstracted them was no less a person than the tutor, 
whom I had come fully prepared to regard with feelings 
of the utmost respect and veneration. 

However, in such a situation, thinking over my 
miseries was worse than useless; something must be 
done at once, — but what ? Write the note, as Lawless had 
advised 1 No, it was no good thinking of that ; I felt I 
could not do it. " Ah ! a bright idea !— Ill try it." So, 

, suiting the action to the word, I rang the bell, and then, 

• jumping into bed, muffled myself up in the bed-clothes. 
"Well, sir, have you found them?" asked Thomas, 

. entering. " No, Thomas," replied I dolefully, " nor ever 
laafl, I fear ; but will you go to Dr. Mildman, and tell 

r him, with my respects, that I cannot get up to break- 
fast this morning, and, if he asks what is the matter 
vita me, say that I am prevented from coming down by 
xvert cold. I am sure that is true enough," added 
1, ahrvering. "Well, sir, I will, if you wish it; but I 
tWt exactly see the good of it ; you must get up some- 
time or other." " I don't know," replied I gloomily, 
"we shall see ; only do you take my message." And he 
accordingly left the room, muttering as he did so, 
-VellTl call this a great deal too bad, and 1*11 tell 

master of it myself, if nobody else won't." " Tell master 
of it himself ! "—he also suspects him {then. This 
crushed my last mint hope that, after all, it might turn 
out to be only a trick of the pupils ; and, overpowered by 
the utter vileness and depravity of him who was set in 
authority over me, I buried my face in the pillow, feeling 
a strong inclination to renew the lamentations of the 
preceding night Not many minutes had elapsed, when 
the sound of a heavy footstep slowly ascending the stairs 
attracted my attention. I raised my Head, and beheld 
the benevolent countenance (for even then it certainly 
did wear a benevolent expression) of my wicked tutor, 
regarding me with a mingled look of scrutiny and pity. 
" Why, Fairlegh, what's all this? —Thomas tells me you 
are not able to come down to breakfast ; you are not ill, 
I hope?" "No, sir," replied I, "I don't think I am 
very ill, but I can't come down to breakfast" "Not 
ill, and yet you can't come down to breakfast ! what in 
the world prevents you?" " Perhaps," said I, (for I was 
becoming angry at what I considered his unparalleled 
effrontery, and thought I would give him a hint that he 
could not deceive me so easily as he seemed to expect,) 
" Perhaps you can tell that better than I can." — " I, my 
boy ! — I am afraid not ; my pretensions to the title of 
doctor are based on* divinity, not physic : — however, put 
out your tongue — that's right enough ; let me feel your 
hand — a little cold or so, but nothing to signify ; did 
you ever have this sort of seizure happen at home?" 
Well, this was adding insult to injury with a vengeance : 
not content with stealing my clothes himself, but 
actually asking me whether such things did not happen 
at home ! The wretch ! thought I ; does he suppose that 
every body is as wicked as himself? " No," answered I, 
my voice trembling with the anger I was scarcely able to 
repress ; " no, sir, such a thing never could happen in 
my dear father's house." "There, don't agitate your- 
self; you seem excited: perhaps you had better lie in 
bed a little longer ; I will send you up something warm, 
and after that you may feel more inclined to get up," 
said he kindly, adding to himself as he left the room, 
" Very strange boy,— I can't make him out at all." 

The door closed, and I was once more alone. " Is he 
guilty, or not guilty T thought I ; " if he really has taken 
the clothes, he is the most accomplished hypocrite 
I ever heard of; yet he must have done so, every thing 
combines to prove it — Thomas's speech — nay, even his 
own offer of sending me " something warm ;" something 
warm, indeed ! what do I want with any thing warm, 
except my trowsers ?" No ! the fact was beyond dispute ; 
they were gone, and he had stolen them, whilst I, un- 
happy youth, was entirely in his power, and had not 
therefore, a chance of redress. " But I will not bear 
it," cried I, " 111 write to my father, — III run away, — 
I'll — " « Hurra !" shouted Thomas, rushing into the room 
with his arm full of clothes, "here they are, sir ! I have 
found the whole kit of them at last." " Where ?" ex- 
claimed I eagerly. " Where ? why, in such a queer plaoe !" 
replied he, " stuffed up the chimney, in masters study ; 
but I've given them a good brushing, and they are 
none the worse for it, except them blessed white ducks ; 
they are a'iriost black ducks now, though they will wash, 
so that don't signify none." " Up the chimney, in mas- 
ter's study !" here was at last proof positive ; my clothes 
had been actually found in his possession— oh, the 
wickedness of this world ! " But how did you ever 
find them?" asked I. "Why ! I happened to go in 
to fetch something, and I see'd a little bit of the leg 
of one of them hanging down the chimney, so I guessed 
how it all was, directly. I think I know how they 
got there, too, they did not walk there by themselves, I 
should say." "I wish they had," muttered I. "I 
thought somebody was up too early this morning to 
be about any good," continued he; "he is never out 
of bed till the last moment, without there's some mis- 
chief in the wind." This was pretty plain speaking, how- 
ever. Thomas was clearly as well aware of his master's 
nefarious practices as the pupils themselves, and Law- 



lees's amiable desire to conceal Dr. Mildman's Bins from 
his servant's knowledge was no longer of any avail. 
I hastened, therefore, (the only reason for silence being 
thus removed,) to relieve my mind from the burden 
of just indignation which was oppressing it. " And can 
you, Thomas," exclaimed I, with flashing eyes, "remain 
the servant of a man who dares thus to outrage every 
law, human and divine ] one who, having taken .upon 
himself the sacred office of a clergyman of the Church 
of England, and so made it his especial duty to set a 
good example to all around him, can take advantage of 
the situation in which he is placed in regard to his 
pupils, and actually demean himself by purloining the 
clothes of the young men (I felt five and twenty at the 
very least at that moment) committed to his charge ? — 
why ! my father "— what I imagined my father would 
have said or done under these circumstances, was fated 
to remain a mystery, as my eloquence was brought to a 
sudden conclusion by my consternation at a series of 
remarkable phenomena, which had been developing 
themselves during my harangue in the countenance 
of Thomas, terminating abruptly in what appeared to 
me a fit of most unmitigated insanity. A look of 
extreme astonishment, which he had assumed at the 
beginning of my speech, had given place to an expres- 
sion of mingled surprise and anger as I continued; 
which again in its turn had yielded to a grin of in- 
tense amusement, growing every moment broader and 
broader, accompanied by rubbing together his hands, 
and a spasmodic twitching of his whole person ; and, as 
I mentioned his master's purloining my trowsers, he 
suddenly sprang up from the floor nearly a yard high, 
and commenced an extempore pas sevl of a Jim Crow 
character, which he continued with unabated vigour 
during several minutes. This " Mazourka cTecstase" 
or whatever a ballet-master would have called it, having 
at length, to my great joy, concluded, the performer of 
it sank exhausted into a chair, and regarding me with a 
face still somewhat the worse for his late violent exer- 
tions, favoured me with the following geographical 
remark :— " Well, I never did believe in the existence 
of sich a place as Greenland before, but there's no 
where else as you could have come from, sir, I am 
certain." " Eh ! why f what's the matter with you ] have 
I done any thing particularly ' green,' as you call it ] 
what are you talking about]" said I, not feeling exactly 
pleased at the reception my virtuous indignation had 
met with. " Oh ! don't be angry, sir ; I am sure I did 
not mean to offend you ; but really I could not help 
it, when I heard you say about master's having stole 
your things. Oh lor!" he added, holding his Bides 
with both hands, " how my sides do ache, sure-ly !" 
"Do you consider that any laughing matter]" said I, 
still in the dark. " Oh ! don't sir, don't say it again, 
or you will be the death of me," replied Thomas, strug- 
gling against a relapse, " why! bless your innocence, what 
could ever make you think master would take your 
clothes?" " Make me think 1 why! Lawless told me 
so," answered I, " and he also said, it was not the first 
time such a thing had occurred either." " You'll have 
enough to do, sir, if you believe all the young gentle- 
men tell you ; why ! master would as soon think of flying, 
as of stealing anything. It was Mr. Coleman as put 
them up the chimney ; he's always a playing some trick 
for everlasting." A pause ensued, during which the 
whole affair in its true bearings became for the first 
time clear to my mind's eye ; the result of my cogita- 
tions may be gathered from the following remark, 
which escaped me as it were involuntarily, — " What a 
confounded ass I have made of myself, to be sure /" 

Should any of my readere be rude enough to agree 
with me in this particular, let them reflect for a mo- 
ment on the peculiar position in which I was placed. 
Having lived from childhood in a quiet country par- 
sonage, with my father and mother, and a sister younger 
than myself, as my sole companions, "mystification," 
that is, telling falsehoods by way of a joke, was a per* 

fectly novel idea to me, and, when that joke involved 
such serious consequences as offending the tutor under 
whose care we were placed, I (wholly ignorant of the 
impudence and recklessness of public school boys) con- 
sidered such a solution of the mystery inconceivable. 
Moreover, every thing around me was so strange, and e© 
entirely different to the habits of life in which I had 
been hitherto brought up, that for the time my mind 
was completely bewildered. I appeared to have lost my 
powers of judgment, and to have relapsed, as far as 
intellect was concerned, into childhood again. My 
readers must excuse this digression, but it appeared 
to me necessary to explain how it was possible for a lad 
of fifteen to have been made the victim of such a pal- 
pably absurd deception, without its involving the neces- 
sity of his not being " so sharp as he should be." 

The promised "something warm 1 * made its appear- 
ance ere long, in the shape of tea and toast, which, 
despite my alarming seizure, I demolished with great 
gusto in bed, (for I did not dare to get up,) feeling, 
from the fact of my having obtained it under false 
pretences, very like a culprit all the while. Having 
finished my breakfast, and allowed sufficient time to 
elapse for my recovery, I got up, and, selecting a pair of 
trowsers which appeared to have suffered less from 
their sojourn in the chimney than the others, dressed 
myself; and soon after eleven o'clock made my appear- 
ance in the pupil's room, where I found Dr. Mildman 
seated at his desk, and the pupils apparently very hard 
at work. " How do you find yourself now you are up, 
Fairleghl" inquired my tutor kindly. "Quite well, 
sir, thank you," I replied, feeling like an impostor. 
" Quite recovered]" continued he. "Every thing— en- 
tirely, I mean," stammered I, thinking of my trowsers. 
" That's well, and now let us see what kind of a Latin 
and Greek lining you have got to your head." So 
saying, he pointed to a seat by his side, and com- 
menced what I considered a very formidable exami- 
nation, with the view of eliciting the extent of mv 
acquaintance with the writers of Antiquity, which 
proved to be extremely select. When he had thoroughly 
satisfied (or dissatisfied) himself upon this point, he 
recommended Horace and Xenophon to my particular 
notice, adding, that Coleman was also directing his 
attention to the sayings and doings of the same honour- 
able and learned gentlemen, — and that, therefore, we 
were to work together. He then explained to me certain 
rules and regulations of his establishment, to which 
he added a few moral remarks, conveying the informa- 
tion, that, if I always did exactly what he considered 
right, and scrupulously avoided every thing he deemed 
wrong, I might relieve my mind from all fears of his 
displeasure, which was, to say the least, satisfactory, if 
not particularly original. Exactly as the clock struck 
one, Dr. Mildman left the room, (the morning's "study," 
as it was called, ending at that hour,) leaving us our own 
mastera till five, at which time we dined. Lest any 
kind reader should fancy we were starved, let me add, 
that at half-past one a substantial luncheon was pro- 
vided, of which we might partake or not as we pleased. 
As well as I remember, we generally did incline towards 
the demolition of the viands, unless "metal more 
attractive" awaited us elsewhere— but I am digressing. 

" Pray, Fairlegh, what did you mean by not coming' 
down till eleven o'clock]" asked Cumberland, in an 
angry tone. " Did its mamma say it was always to have 
its breakfast in bed, a dear ]" sneered Lawless. " When 
she fastened that pretty square collar round its neck," 
chimed in Coleman. "Just like a great gal," added. 
Mullins. "Mildman was exceedingly angry about it, 
I can tell you," continued Cumberland, " and desired, 
me to speak seriously to you on the subject; sucli 
abominable idleness is not to be tolerated." " It was 
not idleness," answered 1, warmly ; " you all know, very- 
well, why I could not come down, and I don't think it 
was at all right or kind of you to play me such a trick.** 
" Eh, — now don't say that, — you will hurt my feelings ; 

big i t i zea ' byGtX>gle 



I declare it is quite affecting/ 1 said Coleman, wiping his 
eyes with Multins's handkerchief, of which he had just 
picked his pocket. " I'd hare given five pounds to 
have seen old Sam's phiz, when he was trying to make 
out what ailed young stupid here, whether he was really 
ill, or only shamming,* said Lawless ; " depend upon it, 
he thinks it was all pretence, and he can't bear any 
Uiing of that sort; that was why he began spinning him 
taat long yarn about 'meriting his approbation by 
upright and straightforward conduct,' this morning. I 
saw what the old boy was aiming at in a minute ; there's 
nothing put* him out so much as being deceived." 
"Won't he set him all the hard lines to construe 1 that's 
all," said Mullins. "It will be 'hard lines' upon him 
if he does," observed Coleman. " Hold your tongue, 
Freddy ! your puns are enough to make one ill," said 
Cumberland. "Well, I don't know whether you are 
going to stand here all day, baiting young pinafore, 
Cumberland?" interrupted Lawless ; "I'm not, for I've 
got a horse waiting for me down at Snaffies's, and I am 
going to ride over to Hookley ; there's a pigeon-match 
coming off to-day between Clayton, of the lancers — (he 
was just above me at Eton, — you know,) and Tom Hor- 
ton, who won the great match at Finchley, and I have 
backed Clayton pretty heavily,— shall you come?" 
"No," replied Cumberland ; " no, I am going down to 

F Street" " As usual, the board of green cloth, eh ? 

you will go there once too often, if you don't mind, 
old fellow." "That's my look out," replied Cumber- 
land ;— and away they went to their different pursuits, 
each, as he left the room, making me a very low obei- 
sance; and Coleman taking the trouble to open the 
door again after he had gone out, to beg, "that if 
I were going to write to my mother, I would tell her, 
with his love, that she need not make herself in the least 
Queasy, as he had quite got over his last little attack." 
In a few minutes they had all quitted the house, and I 
remained the sole tenant of the pupils' room. 

Many a long year has passed over my head since the 
day I am now describing, and each (though my life has 
been on the whole as free from care as that of most 
of the sons of Adam) has brought with it some portion 
of sorrow or suffering, to temper the happiness I have 
enjoyed, and teach me the much required lesson, that 
"here we have no abiding place." I have lived to see 
bright hopes fade, high and noble aspirations fell to the 
ground, checked by the sordid policy of worldly men, 
and the proud hearts which gave them birth become 
gradually debased to the level of those around them, 
or break in the unequal struggle,— and these things 
have pained me. I have beheld those dear to me 
stretched upon the bed of sickness, and taken from me 
by the icy hand of death, and have deemed, as the grave 
dosed over them, that my happiness, as far as this 
world was concerned, was buried with them. I have 
known (and this was grief indeed) those loved with all the 
warm and trustful confidence of youth, prove false and 
unworthy of such deep affection, and have wished, in the 
bitterness of my soul, that the pit had shut her mouth 
apon me also, so that I had died with my faith in them 
PTMJMiVen. Still, although such sorrows as these may 
save produced a more deep and lasting effect upon me, 
I do not remember ever to have felt more thoroughly 
desolate than upon the present occasion. The last scene, 
though trifling in itself, had made a great impression 
anon me, from the fact, that it proved, as I considered, 
the animus of the pupils towards me. " Every man's 
sand was against me." Even the oaf Mullins might insult 
a« with impunity ; secure that, in so doing, if in nothing 
tfee, he would be supported by the rest Then I had 
saended my tutor, all my predilections in whose favour 
sad returned with double force, since I had satisfied 
aayaelf that be was not addicted to the commission 
sf petty larceny ; offended him by allowing him to sup- 
aaee that I had practised a mean deception upon him. 
Ma w eo w cr it was impossible to explain my conduct to 
aha without showing up Coleman, an extreme measure 

for which I was by no means prepared. Besides, every 
one would think, if I were to do so, that I was actuated 
by a paltry spirit of malice, and that would have been 
worse to bear than any thing. No — turn my gaze 
to whichever side I would, the horizon seemed alike 
clouded ; there was no comfort for me any where. I 
looked at my watch— two o'clock ! Three long hours to 
dinner time, in which I might do what I liked. What I 
liked! there was mockery in the very sound. What 
was there for me to do? go out and see more new feces 
looking coldly on me, and wander up and down in 
strange places alone, amidst a crowd? No 1 I had not 
the heart to do that. Sit down, and write home, and by 
telling them how miserable I was, render them unhappy 
too ? that was worst of all. At length I found a book, 
and began reading as it were mechanically, but so little 
was I able to fix my attention, that had I been ques- 
tioned at the end of the time as to the subject of the 
work I had been perusing, I should have been utterly at 
a loss for an answer. I had fairly given it up as hope- 
less, and closed the book, when 1 heard footsteps in 
the passage, followed by the sudden apparition of the 
ever-smiling Mr. Frederick Coleman, who, closing the 
door after him, accosted me as follows : — " What, 
Fairlegh, all in the downs, old fellow? 'never say die;' 
come, be jolly, — look at me." As he said this, I in- 
voluntary raised my eyes to his features, and certainly, 
if ever there were a face formed for banishing blue devils 
by a glance, it was his. It was a round face, not re- 
markable for beauty of outline, inasmuch as it bore 
a strong resemblance to that of the gentleman on the 
blue China plates, in two pigtails and a petticoat, who 
appears to pass a mild ornithological and botanical 
existence in studying intently the two fishy-looking 
birds, and the cannon ball tree, which form the leading 
features of the landscape in his vicinity* With regard 
to expression, however, Coleman had a decided advan- 
tage over the Chinese horticulturist, for, whereas the 
countenance of the latter gentleman expressed (if in- 
deed it could be said to express any thing) only meek 
astonishment, Coleman's small black eyes danced and 
sparkled with such a spirit of mischief and devilry, 
while such a fund of merriment, and, as it now for the 
first time struck me, of good-nature also, lurked about 
the corners of his mouth, that it seemed impossible 
to look at him without feeling that there was some- 
thing contagious in his hilarity. " Why," said I, "every 
thing here is so new to me, so entirely different from 
all I have been accustomed to before, and the unkind — 
that is, the odd way in which Lawless and the rest 
of you seem to behave to me, treating me as if you 
thought I was either a fool or a baby, — it all seems 
so strange, that I confess I am not over happy." " Very 
odd if you were, I think," replied Coleman, "and it 
was a horrid shame of me to hide your trowsers, as 
I did this morning. Oh ! how cold you did look, as 
you stood shivering up in the cold. I'm sorry for it 
now, but I'm such a chap for a bit of fun, that, if a trick 
like that comes into my head, do it I must — oh ! I 
get into no end of scrapes that way. Why it was but 
the other day I put a piece of cobbler's wax upon the 
seat of Mildman's chair, and ruined his best Sunday- 
going sit-upons; he knew, too, who did it, I'm sure, for 
the next day he gave me a double dose of Euclid, to 
take the nonsense out of me, I suppose ; he had better 
mind what he's at, though ; I have got another dodge 
ready for him if he does not take care : but I did not 
mean to annoy you, and you behaved like a brick, too, 
in not saying any thing about it, — I am really very 
sorry." " Never mind," said I, "it's all right again now : 
I lie a joke as well as any body when I know it's 
only fun; the thing I am afraid of now is, that Dr. 
Mildman may think I wanted to deceive him, by pre- 
tending to be ill, when I was not." " I dare say he has 
got a pretty good notion how it is," said Coleman, " but 
well get Thomas to tell him what I was up to, and that 
will set it all straight again." "That will be very 

Digitized by LiUW VC 



kind, indeed," replied I, " but will not Dr. Mildman be 
angry with you about it*" "Not he," said Coleman, 
" he never finds fault unless there's real necessity for it ; 
he's as good a fellow as ever lived, is old Sam, only he's 
so precious slow." " I am glad you like him, he seems 
so very kind and good-natured," said I, "just the sort 
of person one should wish one's tutor to be. But about 
Cumberland and Lawless ; what kind of fellows are they 
when you come to know them V " Oh, you will like 
Lawless well enough when he gets tired of bullying 
you," replied Coleman, " though you need not stand so 
much of that as I was obliged to bear ; you are a good 
head taller than I am,— let's look at your arm; it 
would be all the better for a little more muscle, but 
that will soon improve. I'll put on the glares with 
you for an hour or so of a day." " Put on the gloves ! " 
repeated I, "how do you mean? what has that to do 
with Lawless]" " Oh you muff, don't you understand ? 
of course I mean the boxing-gloves; and when you 
know how to use your fists, if Lawless comes it too 
strong, slip into him." " He must bully a good deal 
before I am driven to that," replied I, "1 never struck 
a blow in anger in my life." "You will see, before 
long," rejoined Coleman, " but at all events there's no 
harm in learning to use your fists ; a man should always 
be able to defend himself if he is attacked." " Yes, 
that's very true," observed I, "but you have not told me 
any thing of Cumberland — shall I ever like him, do you 
think V " Not if you are the sort of fellow I take you 
to be," replied he ; " there's something about Cumberland 
not altogether right, I fimcy; I'm not very straight- 
laced myself, particularly if there's any fun in a thing, 
not so much so as I should be, I suspect ; but Cumber- 
land is too bad even for me ; besides, there's no fun in 
what he does, and then he's such a humbug,— not 
straightforward and honest, you know. Lawless would 
not be half such a bully either, if Cumberland did not 
set him on. But don't you say a word about this to 
any one; Cumberland would be ready to murder me, or 
to get somebody else to do it for him — that's more in 
his way." " Do not fear my repeating any thing told 
me in confidence," replied I, " but what do you mean 
when you say there's something wrong about Cumber- 
land V "Do you know what Lawless meant by the 
'board of green cloth' this morning V "No, — it puz- 
zled me." " I will tell you then," replied Coleman, 
sinking his voice almost to a whisper, — " the billiard 
table !" After telling me this, Coleman, evidently 
fearing to commit himself further with one of whom he 
knew so little, turned the conversation, and, finding 
it still wanted more than an hour to dinner, proposed 
that we should take a stroll along the shore together. 
In the course of our walk, I acquired the additional 
information that another pupil was expected in a few 
days,— the only son of Sir John Oaklands, a baronet of 
large fortune in Hertfordshire; and that an acquain- 
tance of Coleman's, who knew him, said he was a capital 
fellow, but very odd, — though in what the oddity con- 
sisted did not appear. Moreover, Coleman confirmed 
me in my preconceived idea, that Mullins's genius lay 
at present chiefly in the eating, drinking, and sleeping 
line, — adding that, in his opinion, he bore a striking 
resemblance to those somewhat dissimilar articles, — 
a muff and a spoon. In converse such as this the time 
slipped away, till we suddenly discovered that we had 
only a quarter of an hour left in which to walk back to 
Langdale Terrace, and prepare for dinner ; whereupon 
a race began, in which my longer legs gave me so 
decided an advantage over Coleman, that he declared 
he would deliver me up to the tender mercies of the 
"Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," 
for what he was pleased to call "an aggravated case of 
over-driving a private pupil." 


A Legend of the country of Lion. (2 ) 
Evbbt one who knows the land of the Church (Lanillis), 
knows also that it is one of the loveliest parishes in the 
diocese of Leon. To say nothing of green crops and 
corn, its orchards are lamed from all time for apples 
sweeter than the honey of Sizun, and plum-trees, of 
which every blossom ripens into fruit. As for the 
marriageable maidens, they are all models of discretion 
and housewifery ; at least so say their nearest relation*, 
who of course know them best. I| 

In olden times, when miracles were as common in 
these parts as christenings and burials now, there dwelt 
in Lanillis a young man, called Houarn Pogamm, and s 
damsel, whose name was Bellah Postik. They were 
akin, at some little distance, and their mothers had .1 
cradled them together in their infancy, as they do there 
with children that are destined, with God's blessing, to 
become man and wife.* 

They grew up together in love, as in age and stature ; 
but every one that they had to care for them being 
dead, one after the other, and they left portionless, the 
two poor orphans were at last obliged to go into service. 
They ought indeed to have been happy, for they served 
the same master; but lovers are like the sea, that mur- 
murs ever. 

" If we only had enough to buy a little cow and a 
lean pig," said Houarn, " I would take a bit of land of 
our master, and then the good father should marry us, 
and we would go and live together." 

" Yes," replied Bellah, with a deep sigh, " but the 
times are so hard ! The cows and pigs were dearer 
than ever at Ploudalmerzean the last fair ! Providence 
must surely have given up caring for the world !" 

" I am afraid we shall have to wait a long time," 
said the young man, " for I never get the last glass of 
the bottle when I drink with the rest of them." 

" Very long," replied the maiden ; " for I never can 
hear the cuckoo." 

Day after day it was the same story; till at last 
Houarn was quite out of patience. So one morning 
he came to Bellah, as she was winnowing some corn in 
the threshing-floor, and told her how he had made up 
his mind that he would set out on his travels to seek 
his fortune. 

Sadly troubled was the poor girl at this resolve, and 
Bhe said all she could to dissuade him from it; but 
Houarn, who was a determined young fellow, would not 
be withheld. 

" The birds," said he, " fly hither and thither till 
they have found a field of corn, and the bees till they 
meet with flowers that may yield them honey ; is it for 
man to be less reasonable than the winged creatures ? 
I also will go forth on my quest ; what I want is but 
the price of a little cow and a lean pig. If you love me, 
Bellah, you will no longer oppose a project which is to 
hasten our marriage." 

Bellah could not but acknowledge that there was 
reason in his words; so with a sigh and a yearning- 
heart Bhe said, — " Go, then, Houarn, with God's bless- 
ing, if it must be so ; but first let me share with you 
my family relics." 

(1) The name Groac'h, or Grac'h, means literally old woman, 
and was given to the Druidesses who had established themselves 
in an island off the south-west coast of Brittany, called thence 
the isle of Groac'h, by corruption Groais, or Groix. But the word 
gradually lost its original meaning of old woman, and came to 
signify a woman endowed with power over the elements, and 
dwelling amongst the waves, as did the island Druidesses; in fact, 
• sort of water-fay, but of a malevolent nature, like all the Breton 
fairies. Such of our readers as are not acquainted with La Motte 
Fouque's beautiful tale of Undine, may require to be reminded ixtat 
the sprites, sylphs, gnomes, and fairies, of the popular mythologies, 
are not necessarily, perhaps not even generally, exempt from 

(2) Fide the head-note to the tale of Robin Redbreast, in No. 7. 
p. 100. 

(S) This custom exists throughout Comouaille. The children 
destined for each other are laid, from their birth, in the same 

Digitized by V^iOOQLC 



She led him to her press, and took out a little beH, 
a knife, and a staff. 

" There," said she. " these are immemorial heir-looms 
of our family. This is the bell of St. Koledok. Its 
sound can be heard at any distance, however great, and 
will give immediate notice to the possessor's friends 
should he be in any danger. The knife onee belonged to 
SuCorentin, and its touch dissolves all spells, were 
they of the arch-fiend himself. Lastly, here is the staff 
of St. Vouga, which will lead its possessor whither- 
soever he may desire to go. I will give you the knife 
to defend you from enchantments, and the little bell to 
let me know if you are in peril ; the staff I will keep, 
that I may be able to join you should you need my 

Houarn accepted with thanks his Bellah's gifts, 
wept awhile with her, as belongs to a parting, and set 
oot towards the mountains. 

But it was then just as it is now, and in all the vil- 
lages through which he passed, the traveller was beset 
by beggars, to whom any one with whole garments was 
a man of rank and fortune. 

" By my faith," thought he, " this part of the country 
seems fitter for spending a fortune than for making 
one ; 1 must go farther." 

He went onwards therefore towards the west, till at 
last he arrived at Pontaven, a pretty town, built upon 
a river bordered with poplars. 

There, as he sat at the inn-door, he overheard two 
carriers, who, as they loaded their mules, were talking 
together of the Groac'h of the Isle of Lok. 

Houarn inquired who or what that might be, and 
was told that it was the name of a fairy, who inhabited 
the lake in the largest of the GUnans, 1 and who was 
said to be as rich as all the kings of the earth together. 
Many had been the treasure-seekers that had visited 
her island, but not ever had one of them returned. 

The thought came suddenly into Houarn's mind that 
he too would try the adventure. The muleteers did all 
they could to dissuade him. They were so loud in 
their remonstrances, that they collected quite a crowd 
about him, crying out that it was downright unchristian 
to let him run into destruction in that way, and the 
people would even have kept him back by force. Houarn 
thanked them for the interest they manifested in his 
welfare, and declared himself ready to give up his 
design, if only they would make a collection amongst 
them which would enable him to buy a little cow and a 
lean pig : but at this proposition the muleteers and all 
the others drew back, simply repeating that he was an 
obstinate fellow, and that it was of no use talking 
to him. So Houarn repaired to the sea-shore, where 
he took a boat, and was carried to the Isle of Lok. 

He had no difficulty in finding the pond, which was 
in the centre of the island, its banks fringed by sea 
plants with rose-coloured flowers. As he walked round, 
he saw lying at one end of it, shaded by a tuft of 
broom, a sea-green canoe, which floated on the unruffled 
waters. It was fashioned like a swan asleep, with its 
head under its wing. 

Houarn, who had never seen anything like it before, 
drew nearer with curiosity, and stepped into the boat 
that he might examine it the better ; but scarcely had 
he set foot within it, than the swan seemed to awake, 
its head started from amongst the feathers, its wide 
feet spread themselves to the waters, and it swam 
rapidly from the bank. 

The young man gave a crv of alarm, but the swan 
only made the more swiftly for the middle of the lake ; 
and just as Houarn had decided on throwing himself 
from his strange bark, and swimming for the shore, 
the bird plunged downwards, head foremost, drawing 
him under water along with it. 

(1) A cluster of islets off the southern coast of Brittany, near the 
atadtaod of Penmarc'h. The name signifies literally summer-land. 
Oae of them is called the isle of Lok, or Lock, and contains a fish 
fast, from which it seams to derire its name. 

The unfortunate Leonard, who could not cry out 
without gulping down the unsavoury water of the pool, 
was silent by necessity, and soon arrived at the Groac'h's 

It was a palace of shells, far surpassing in beauty all 
that can be imagined. It was entered by a flight of 
crystal steps, each stair of which, as the foot pressed it, 
gave forth a concert of sweet sounds, like the song of many 
birds. A 11 around stretched gardens of immense extent, 
with forests of marine plants, and plots of green sea- 
weed, spangled with diamonds in the place of flowers. 

The Groac'h was reclining in the entrance hall upon 
a couch of gold. Her dress was of sea-green silk, 
exquisitely fine, and floating round her like the waves 
that wrapped her grotto. Her black locks, intertwined 
with coral, descended to her feet, and the white and red 
of her brilliant complexion blended as in the polished 
lining of some Indian shell. 

Dazzled with a sight at once so fair and unexpected, 
Houarn stood still, but with a winning smile the 
Groac'h rose, and came forward to meet him. So easy 
and flowing were her movements, that she seemed like 
a snowy billow heaving along the sea, as she advanced 
to greet the young Leonard. 

" You are welcome," said she, beckoning him with 
her hand to enter ; " there is always room here for all 
comers, especially for handsome young men." 

At this gracious reception Houarn somewhat re- 
covered himself, and entered the hall. 

" Who are you 1 Whence come you 1 What seek 
you T* continued the Groac'h. 

" My name is Houarn," replied the Leonard ; " I come 
from Lanillis ; and I am in quest of the wherewithal to 
buy a little cow and a lean pig." 

" Well, come in, Houarn," said the fairy, "and dismiss 
all anxiety from your mind ; you shall have every thing 
to make you happy." 

While this was passing she had led him into a circular 
hall, the walls of which were covered with pearls, where 
she set before him eight different kinds of wine, in eight 
goblets of chased silver. Houarn made trial of all, and 
found all so much to his taste that he repeated his 
draught of each eight times, while ever as the cup left 
his lips, the Groac'h seemed still fairer than before. 

She meanwhile encouraged him to drink, telling him 
he need be in no fear of ruining her, for that the lake in 
the Isle of Lok communicated with the sea, and that all 
the treasures swallowed up by shipwrecks were con- 
veyed thither by a magic current 

" I do not wonder," cried Houarn, emboldened at 
once by the wine and the manner of his hostess, that 
the people on shore speak so badly of you ; in fact, it 
just comes to this, that you are rich, and they are en- 
vious. For my part, I should be very well content with 
the half of your fortune." 

" It shall be yours if you will, Houarn," said the 

" How can that be?' he asked. 

" My husband, the Eorandon, is dead," she answered, 
"so that I am now a widow; if you like me well 
enough, I will become your wife." 

Houarn quite lost his breath for very wonderment. 
For him to marry that beautiful creature ! to dwell in 
that splendid palace 1 and to drink to his heart's con- 
tent of the eight sorts of wine ! True, he was engaged 
to Bellah ; but men easily forget such promises, — indeed, 
for that they are just like women. So he gallantly 
assured the fairy that one so lovely must be irresistible, 
and that it would bo his pride and joy to become her 

Thereupon the Groac'h exclaimed that she would 
forthwith make ready the wedding feast. She spread a 
table, which she covered with all the delicacies that the 
Leonard had ever heard of, besides a great many 
unknown to him even by name ; and then proceeding 
to a little fish-pond at the bottom of the garden, she 
began to call, — " Now, attorney ! now, miller ! now, 

dig i t i zed by GcJUgle 



tailor ! now, Mr. Dean !" And at each call up swam a 
fish, which she successively caught in a steel net When 
the net was full, she carried it into the next room, and 
threw all the fish into a golden frying-pan. 

But it seemed to Houarn as though there was 
a whispering of little voices amidst the hissing of the 

" What is that whispering in the frying-pan, Groac'h V 
he asked. 

" It is the crackling of the wood," said she, stirring 
the fire. 

An instant after the little voices again began to 

"What is that murmuring, Groac'h T asked the 

" It is the butter in the frying-pan," she answered, 
giving the fish a toss. 

But soon the little voices cried yet louder. 

" What is that cry, Groac'h V* said Houarn. 

" It is the cricket in the hearth," replied the fairy, 
and she began to sing, so that the Leonard could no 
longer hear anything but her voice. 

But he could not help thinking on what he had 
noticed : and thought brought fear, and fear, of course, 

" Alas ! " he cried, " can it then be possible that 
I have so soon forgotten Bel lab for this Groac'h, who is 
no doubt a child of Satan ! With her for my wife, I 
shall not even dare to say my prayers at night, and shall 
be as sure to go to hell as an exciseman." 

While he thus communed with himself, the fairy 
brought in the fried fish, and pressed him to eat, while 
she went to fetch him twelve new sorts of wine. 

Houarn sighed, took out his knife, and prepared to 
begin; but scarcely had the spell-destroying blade 
touched the golden dish, than all the fish rose up in 
the form of little men, each one clad in the proper costume 
of his rank and occupation. There was a lawyer with his 
bands ; a tailor in blue stockings ; a miller all white 
with flour ; a reverend dean in full canonicals ; and all 
crying out at once, as they swam in the melted butter, — 

" Houarn, save us, if thou wouldst thyself be saved !" 

u Holy Virgin ! what are these little men singing out 
from amongst the melted butter f cried the Leonard, in 

*' We are Christians like thyself," they answered. 
" We, too, came to seek our fortunes in the Isle of Lok ; 
we, too, consented to marry the Groac'h ; and the day 
after the wedding she did with us as she had done with 
all our predecessors, of whom the fish-pond in the 
garden is full." 

" What !" cried Houarn, " a creature that looks so 
young already the widow of this multitude of fishes?" 

" And thou wilt soon be in the same condition ; 
subject thyself to be fried and eaten by some new 

Houarn gave a jump, as though he felt himself 
already in the golden frying-pan, and ran towards the 
door, thinking only how he might escape before the 
Groac'h should return. But she was already there, and 
had heard all ; her net of steel was soon thrown over 
the Leonard, who found himself instantly transformed 
into a frog, in which guise the fairy carried him to the 
fish-pond, and threw him in, to keep her former hus- 
bands company. 

At this moment the little bell, which Houarn wore 
round his neck, tinkled of its own accord, and Bellah 
heard it at Lanillis, where she was busy skimming the 
last night's milk. 

The sound struck upon her heart like a funeral 
knell ; and she cried aloud, — " Houarn is in danger !*' 
And without a moment's delay, without asking counsel 
of any as to what she should do, she ran and put on her 
Sunday clothes, her shoes and silver cross, and set out 
from the farm with her magic staff. Arrived where 
four roads met, she set the stick upright in the ground, 
murmuring in a low voice, — 

11 List, thou crab-tree staff of mine! 
By good St. Vouga hear me 1 
O'er earth and water, through air, 'tis thine 
Whither I will to bear me ! • • 

And lo ! the stick became a bay nag, a right roadster 
of St. Thegonec, dressed, saddled, and bridled, with a 
rosette behind each ear, and a blue feather in front. 

Bellah mounted without the slightest hesitation, and 
the horse set forward ; first at a walking pace, then he 
trotted, and at last galloped, and that so swiftly, that 
ditches, trees, houses, and steeples passed before the 
young girl's eyes like the arms of a spindle. But she 
complained not, feeling that each step brought her 
nearer to her dear Houarn ; nay, she rather urged on 
her beast, saying, — 

" Less swift than the swallow is the horse, less swift 
the Bwallow than the wind, the wind than the lightning ; 
but thou, my good steed, if thou lovest me, outstrip 
them all in speed ; for a part of my heart is suffering; 
the better half of my own life is in danger." 

The horse understood her, and flew like a straw 
driven by the whirlwind, till he arrived in the country 
of Arhes, at the foot of the rock called the Stag's Leap. 
But there he stood still, for never had horse foaled of 
mare scaled that precipice. Bellah, perceiving the 
cause of his stopping, renewed her incantation, saying — 

" Once again, thou courser mine, 
By good St. Vouga hear me! 
O'er earth and water, through air, 'tit thine 
Whither I will to bear me !" 

She had hardly finished, when a pair of wings sprang 
from the sides of her horse, which now became a great 
bird, and in this shape flew away with her to the top 
of the rock. 

Strange indeed was the sight that here met her eyes. 
Upon a nest made of potter's clay and dry moss, squatted 
a little korandon, 1 all swarthy and wrinkled, who, on 
beholding Bellah, began to cry aloud, — 

" Hurra ! Here is the pretty maiden come to 
save me !" 

" Save theer said Bellah. " Who art thou, then, 
my little man r 

"I am Grannik, the husband of the Groac'h of the 
Isle of Lok. She it was that sent me here." 

" But what art thou doing in this nestT 

" I am sitting on six stone eggs, and I cannot be 
free till they are hatched." 

Bellah could not keep herself from laughing right out. 

" Poor little dear ! " said she ; " and how can I 
deliver thee V* 

" By saving Houarn, who is in the Groac'h's power." 

" Ah, tell me how I may do that !" cried the orphan 
girl, " and not a moment will I lose in setting about my 
part in the matter, though I should have to make the 
circuit of the four dioceses upon my bare knees." 

" Well, then, there are two things to be done," said 
the korandon. " The first, to present thyself before the 
Groac'h as a young man ; and the next, to take from 
her the steel net which she carries at her girdle, and 
shut her up in it till the day of judgment" 

" And where shall I get a suit of clothes to fit mc, 
Korandon, my darling V 

" Thou shalt see, my pretty one." 

With these words the little dwarf pulled out four 
hairs from his foxy poll, and blew them to the winds, 
muttering something in an under tone, and lo ! the 
four haire became four tailors, of whom the first held in 
his hand a cabbage, the second a pair of scissors, the 
third a needle, and the last a smoothing goose. All 
the four seated themselves cross-legged round the nest, 
and began to prepare a suit of clothes for Bellah. 

Out of one cabbage-leaf they made a beautiful coat, 
laced at every seam ; of another they made a waistcoat ; 
but it took two leaves for the trunk breeches, such aa 
are worn in the country of Leon ; lastly, the heart of 

» — 

(1) A dwarfish sprite. See Illustration, p. 17. 

Digitized by V^iOOQlC 



the cabbage was shaped into a hat, and the stalk was 
converted into shoes. 

Thus equipped, Bellah would have passed anywhere 
for a handsome young gentleman, in green velvet lined 
with white satin. 

She thanked the korandon, who added some further 
instructions, and then her great bird flew away with 
her straight to the Isle of Lok. There she commanded 
him to resume the form of a crab-stick ; and entering 
the swan-shaped boat arrived safely at the Groac'h's 

The fairy was quite taken at first sight with the 
velvet clad young Leonard. 

" Weil," quoth she to herself, " you are the 
the best looking young fellow that has ever come to see 
me ; and I do think I shall love you for three times 
three days." 

And she began to make much of her guest, calling him 
her darling, and heart of hearts. She treated her with 
a collation, and Bellah found upon the table St. Corcn tin's 
knife, which had been left there by Houarn. She took 
it up against the time of need, and followed the Groac'h 
into the garden. There the fairy showed her the grass- 
plots, flowered with diamonds, the fountains of per- 
fumed waters, and, above all, the fish-pond, wherein 
swam fishes of a thousand colours. 

With these last Bellah made to be especially taken, bo 
that she must needs sit down upon the edge of the pond, 
the better to enjoy the Bight of them. 

The Groac'h took advantage of her manifest delight 
to ask her if she would not like to spend all her days 
in this lovely place. Bellah replied that she should 
like it of all things. 

" Well, then, so you may, and from this very hour, 
if you are only ready at once to marry me," proceeded 
the fairy. 

" So I will," replied Bellah ; " but you must let me 
fetch up one of these beautiful fishes with the steel net 
that hangs at your girdle." 

The Groac'h, nothing suspecting, and taking this 
request for a mere boyish freak, gave her the net, saying 
with a smile, " Let us see, fair fisherman, what you will 

" Thee, fiend !" cried Bellah, throwing the net over 
the Groac'h's head. " In the name of the Saviour of 
men, accursed sorceress, become in body even as thou 
art in soul." 

The cry uttered by the Groac'h died away in a stifled 
murmur, for the exorcism had already taken effect ; the 
beautiful water fay was now nothing more than the 
hideous queen of toadstools. 

In an instant Bellah drew to the net, and with all 
ipeed threw it into a well, upon which she laid a stone, 
sealed with the sign of the cross, that it might remain 
dosed till the tombs shall be opened at the last day. 

She then hastened back to the pond, but all the fish 
were already out of it, coming forth to meet her, like a 
procession of many coloured monks, crying in their 
little hoarse voices, " Behold our lord and master ! 
who has delivered us from the net of steel, and the 
golden frying-pan." 

* And who will also restore you to your shape of 
Christians," said Bellah, drawing forth the knife of 
St Corentin. But as she was about to touch the first 
fish, she perceived close to her a green frog, with the 
magic bell hung about his neck, and sobbing bitterly as 
he knelt before her, his two little paws pressed upon 
hi* tiny heart. Bellah felt her bosom swell, and she 
exclaimed, — " Is it thou, is it thou, my Houarn, thou 
lord of my sorrow and my joy V 

** It is I," answered the befrogged youth. 

At a touch with the potent blade he recovered his 
proper form, and Bellah and he fell into each other's 
arms, the one eye weeping for the past, the other 
glistening with the present joy. 

She then did the like for all the fishes, who were 
restored each of them to his pristine shape and condition. 

The work of disenchantment was hardly at an end, 
when up came the little korandon from the Stag's Leap 
rock, drawn in his nest, as in a chariot, by six great 
cockchafers, which had just been hatched from the six 
eggs of stone. 

" Here I am, my pretty maiden," cried he to Bellah : 
" the spell which held me where you saw me is broken, 
and I am come to thank you, for from a hen you have 
made me a man again." 

| He then conducted the lovers to the Groac'h's coffers, 
which were filled with precious stones, of which he 
begged them to take as many as they pleased. 

They both loaded their pockets, their girdles, their 
hate, and even their great trunk breeches ; and when 
they had as much as they could possibly carry, Bellah 
commanded her staff to become a winged chariot, of 
sufficient size to convey them to Lanillis, with all whom 
she had delivered from the enchantment. 

The banns were soon published, and Houarn married 
his Bellah, as he had so long desired. But instead of a 
little cow and a lean pig, he bought all the land in tho 
parish, and put in as farmers the people he had brought 
with him from the Isle of Lok. 


May-day, concluded from p. 14. 

Ik many parts of the country May-poles may yet be 
found. The writer of these pages saw one eighty feet 
high, on the village green of West Dean, Wilts, in the 
summer of 1836 ; and another, in a neighbouring parish, 
at the same period. From an account of a festival in 
St. James's District, Enfield, 1844, we learn that " there 
was running in sacks, and running blindfold, jingling, 
racing, and dancing round the May-pole; while the 
band played old national airs that our forefathers loved" 
" In crossing the Trent," says Washington Irving, in his 
interesting account of his visit to JNewstead Abbey, 
" one seems to step back into old times ; and in the 
villages of Sherwood Forest we are in a black-letter 
region. The moss-grown cottages, the lowly mansions 
of grey-stone, the Gothic crosses at each end of the 
villages, and the tall May-pole in tlie centre, transport 
us, in imagination, to foregone centuries. Every thing 
has a quaint and antiquated air." Upon this, Mr. Howitt 
observes : — " There is certainly a May-pole standing in 
the village of Linby, near Newstead, and there is one 
in the village of Farnsfield, near Southwell ; but I have 
been endeavouring to recollect any others for twenty 
miles round, and cannot do it ; and though garlands 
are generally hung on these poles on May-day, wreathed 
by the hands of some fair damsel, who has a lingering 
affection for the olden times, and carried up by some 
adventurous lad, alas ! the dance beneath it, where is it? 
In tho dales of Derbyshire, May-poles are more frequent, 
but the dancing I never saw." The late Dr. Parr was a 
patron of May-day festivities. Opposite his parsonage- 
house at Hatton, near Warwick, on the other side of the 
road, stood the parish May-pole, which, on the annual 
festival, was dressed with garlands, and surrounded by a 
numerous band of villagers. The Doctor was " first of 
the throng," and danced with his parishioners the gayest 
of the gay. He kept the large crown of the May-pole 
in the closet of his house, from whence it was produced 
every May-day, with fresh flowers and streamers, prepa- 
ratory to its elevation, and to the Doctor's own appear- 
ance in the ring. He always spoke of this festivity as 
one wherein he joined with peculiar delight to himself, 
and advantage to his neighbours. 

" A certain superstitious feeling," says Mr. Chambers, 
" attached to May-day. The dew of that morning was 
considered as a cosmetic of the highest efficacy ; and 
women used to go abroad, before sunrise, to gather it. 
Maidens, also, threw it over their shoulder, in order to 
propitiate Fate in allotting them a good husband. In 
the Morning Post, May 2, 1791, it was mentioned that, 




" yesterday, according to annual custom, a number of 
persons went into the fields, and bathed their faces with 
the dew on the grass, under the idea that it would 
make them beautiful." To this day, there is a resort of 
the fair sex, every May morning, to Arthur's Seat, near 
Edinburgh, for the same purpose. Mr. Pepys makes 
this entry in his Diary : — " My wife away to Woolwich, 
in order to a little air, and to lie there to-night, and so 
to gather May-dew to-morrow morning, which Mrs. Turner 
hath taught her is the only thing to wash her face with." 
Scott, in his " Discovery of Witchcraft,*' observes,—" To 
be delivered from witches, they hang in their entries 
(among other things) hay-thorn, otherwise white-thorn, 

fathered on May-day." Gay's " Shepherd's Week" 
escribes another " quaint" superstition connected with 
this festival. 

" Last May-day fair, I searched to find a snail, 
That might my secret lover's name reveal. 
Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found, 
For always snails near sweetest fruit abound. 
I seized the vermin ; home I quickly sped, 
And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread. 
Slow crawled the snail, and if I right can spell, 
In the soft ashes marked a curious L. 
Oh ! may this wondrous omen lucky prove, 
Ear L is found in Lubberkin and Ixive. 
with ray sharp heel I three times mark the ground, 
And turn me thrice around, around, around." 

A description of the festive customs still, or within 
these few years, remaining on May-day, in different 
parts of the kingdom, would occupy a number of this 
Magazine ; and, of course, cannot, consequently, be given : 
yet our " Year Book " would be very incomplete without 
a brief account of some of the principal of them. 
There was formerly a practice of making fools on this 
day, similar to that which obtains on the first of April. 
The deluded were called May-goslings. At Lynn, in 
Norfolk, the May garlands are made of two hoops of 
the same size fixed transversely, and attached to a pole 
or staff, with the end through the centre, and parallel 
to the hoops; bunches of flowers, interspersed with 
evergreens, are tied round the hoops, from the interior 
of which festoons of blown birds' eggs are usually sus- 
pended, and long strips of various coloured ribands are 
also pendant from the top. A doll, full dressed, of pro- 
portionate size, is seated in the centre, thus exhibiting 
an humble representation of Flora, surrounded by the 
" fragrant emblems of her consecrated offerings." These 
garlands are carried about the town in all directions, 
each with an attendant group of " juveniles," who blow, 
in deafening concert, the horns of bulls and cows. 
Each garland is subsequently dismounted from the staff, 
and suspended across a court or lane, where the amuse- 
ment of throwing balls over It, from one to another, 
generally terminates the day. May-garlands, with dolls, 
arc carried at Northampton by the neighbouring 
villagers. In Huntingdonshire, the children suspend a 
sort of crown of hoops, wreathed and ornamented 
with flowers, ribands, handkerchiefs, necklaces, silver 
spoons, &c., at a considerable height above the road, by 
a rope, extending from chimney to chimney of the 
cottages, and attempt, as at Lynn, to fling their balls 
over it from side to side, singing, and begging halfpence 
from the passengers. A doll, or larger figure, " some- 
times makes an appendage in some side nook." The 
money collected is afterwards spent in a tea-drinking, 
with cakes, &c. At Cambridge, the children formerly 
had a similar " manikin," before which they set a table, 
having wine on it, and begged money, with the suppli- 
cation, " Pray remember the poor May-lady." As lately 
as last Mayday, a May-pole was set up in a meadow 
behind the College walks, and the games were excellent. 
A Maid Marian figured among the dancers, who footed 
it merrily, till sunset, to the fiddle's iovial sound. " At 
Oxford," says Aubrey, " the boys do blow cows' horns 
and hollow canes all night; and on May-day the young 
maids of every parish carry about garlands of flowers, 

which afterwards they hang up in their churches." In 
this city, also, at the hour of five on May-day morning, 
the choristers of the College of St. Mary Magdalene assem- 
ble on the top of the chapel tower, and sing a Latin hymn, 
in lieu of a requiem, which, before the Reformation, 
was performed in the same place for the soul of Henry VII. 
A singular custom used to be annually observed on May- 
day by the boys of Prindsbury, and the neighbouring 
town of Stroud. They met on Rochester bridge, where 
a skirmish ensued between them. " This combat," 
Brand remarks, " probably derived its origin from a 
drubbing received by the monks of Rochester, in the 
reign of Edward I." At Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, 
the youths and maidens used to come marching up to 
the May-pole with wands wreathed with cowslips, which 
they there struck together in wild enthusiasm, and 
scattered the flowers in a shower around them. At 
Padstow, in Cornwall, they have, or had lately, the pro- 
cession of the hobby-horse. At Hitchen, in Hertford- 
shire, a large party of the town-people and neighbouring 
labourers parade the streets, soon after three o'clock 
in the morning, singing the " Mayer's Song." They 
carry in their nands large branches of May, and they 
affix one of these upon the doors of nearly every 
respectable house. Those of unpopular persons are 
marked with a bough of elder and a bunch of nettles 
instead. Throughout the day, parties of these Mayers 
are seen, dancing and frolicking, in various parts of the 
town. " The group that I saw to-day," says one of Mr. 
Hone's correspondents, "was composed as follows: — 
First came two men with their faces blacked, one of 
them with a birch broom in his hand, and a large arti- 
ficial hump on his back ; the other dressed as a woman, 
all in rags and tatters, with a large straw bonnet on, and 
carrying a ladle ; these are called ' Mad Moll, and her 
husband.' Next came two men, one most fantastically 
dressed with ribands, and a great variety of gaudy- 
coloured handkerchiefe, tied round his arms, from the 
shoulders to the wrists, and down his thighs and legs to 
the ankles; he carried a drawn sword in his hand; 
leaning on his arm was a youth, dressed as a fine lady, 
in white muslin, and profusely bedecked from top to toe 
with gay ribands ; these were called the ' Lord and 
Lady' of the company. After these followed six or 
seven couples more, attired much in the same style as 
the Lord and Lady, only the men were without swords. 
When this group received a satisfactory contribution at 
any house, the music struck up from a violin, clarionet, 
and fife, accompanied by the long drum, and they began 
the merry dance." While this continued, the principal 
amusement to the populace was caused by the grimaces 
and clownish tricks of Mad Moll and her husband. 
" When the circle of spectators became so contracted 
as to interrupt the dancers, then Mad Moll's husband 
went to work with his broom, and swept the road dust 
all round the circle into the faces of the crowd ; and 
when any pretended affronts were offered to his wife, he 
pursued the offenders, broom in hand ; if he could not 
overtake them, whether they were males or females, he 
flung the broom at them." The song entoned by these 
personages consists of seven religious verses, of great 
antiquity. It concludes as follows : — 

w The life of man is but a span, 
It flourishes like a flower ; 
We are here to-day, and gone -to-morrow, 
And we are dead in an hour. 

" The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, 
A little before it is day ; 
So God bless you all, both great and small, 
And send you a joyfid May." 

At Great Gandsden, Cambridgeshire, "the farmers' 
young men-servants," says Mr. Howitt, " go and cut 
hawthorn, singing what we call the Night Song. They 
leave a bough at each house, according to the number 
of young persons in it. On the evening of May-day, 
and the following evening, they go round to every 




house where they left a bush, singing The May Song. 
One has a handkerchief on a long wand for a flag, with 
which he keeps off the crowd. The rest have ribands in 
their hats." Hutchinson, in his History of Northum- 
berland, tells us, " that a svllabub is prepared for the 
May-feast, which is made of warm milk from the cow, 
sweet cake, and wine ; and a kind of divination is prac- 
tised, by fishing with a ladle for a wedding ring, which 
is dropped into it, for the purpose of prognosticating 
who shall be first married." At Penzance, in Ireland, 
and in Wales, May dances and observances (to which, 
we are sorry to say, we have only space to allude,) are 
still practised. 

May 8. — On this day, at Helstone, in Cornwall, is 
held what is called " the Furry," — a name supposed by 
Mr. Polwhele to have been derived from the old Cornish 
word fer, a fair or jubilee. The morning is ushered in 
by the music of drums and kettles, and other accom- 
paniments of a song " not very comprehensible." So 
strict is the observance of this day as a general festival, 
that, should any person be found at work, he is instantly 
seized, set astride on a pole, and hurried on men's 
shoulders, amidst thousands of huzzas, to the river, 
where he is sentenced to leap over a wide place, which 
he, of course, fails in accomplishing, and jumps into the 
water. A small contribution, however, towards the ex- 
penses of the feast, saves him from this cooling. About 
nine o'clock, the mob gathers round the various semi- 
naries, and demands a holiday for their youthful in- 
mates, which request is acceded to ; a collection from 
house to house is then commenced, towards the general 
fund. The " young folks," of both sexes, then fade into 
the country, (fade being an old English word for go,) 
and return at twelve, with flowers and oak branches in 
their hat* and caps. On entering the town, they are 
joined by a band of music, and dance, hand in hand, 
through the streets, to the " Flora Tune." In their pro- 
gress, they enter every house and garden thev please, 
without distinction ; all doors are opened, and, in fitct, 
it is thought much of by the householders to be thus 

The older branch of the population dance in the same 
manner ; for it is to be noticed, they have select parties, 
and at different hours ; no two sets dance together, or 
at the same time. " Then follow the gentry, which," 
says an eye-witness, " is really a very pleasing sight on 
a fine day, from the noted respectability of this rich 
borough. In this set, the sons and daughters of some 
of the first and noblest families of Cornwall join. The 
appearance of the ladies is enchanting. Added to their 
personal charms, in ball-room attire, each, tastefully 
adorned with beautiful spring flowers, in herself appears 
to the gazer's eye a Flora, and leads ns to conceive the 
whole a scene from fairy land." The next set is the 
soldiers and their lasses ; then come the tradesmen and 
their wives ; journeymen and their " sweethearts ;" and, 
" though last not least," the male and female servants, 
in splendid livery. In the evening a grand ball is 
always held at the assembly rooms ; to which, in 1826, 
were added the performance of the " Honeymoon," at 
the theatre, a troop of horse at the circus, and an exhi- 
bition of sleight of hand, at the rooms. The borough, 
on this occasion, was thronged with visitors from all 
parts of the country. A writer, in 1790, states that at 
that period the dance round the streets was called a 
" Faddy." " In the afternoon," he adds, " the gcntilitv 
go to some farm-house in the neighbourhood, to drink 
tea, syllabubs, &c., and return In a morris-dance to the 
town, where they form a Faddy, and dance through 
the streets till it is dark, claiming a right of going 
through any person's house— in at one door and out 
at another. And here it formerly used to end, and the 
company of all kinds to disperse quietly to their several 

habitations The ladies are now conducted by 

their partners to the ball-room, where they continue 
their dance till supper time ; after which, they all faddy 
it out of* the house, breaking off by degrees to their 

respective houses. The mobility imitate their superiors, 
and also adjourn to the Beveral public-houses, where 
they continue their dance till midnight." " There is 
no doubt," says Hone, "of the ' Furry ' originating from 
the ' Floralia/ anciently observed by the Romans on the 
fourth of the kalends of May." 

There is a tradition that St. Michael, the patron saint 
of Helstone, made his appearance, or apparition, as it is 
called, on the 8th of May, at St. Michael's Mount, on a 
rock called his chair. This may have been a reason for 
making the octave of the May feast, or 8th of May, a 
marked day at Helstone ; and when May-day festivities 
became obsolete here, as elsewhere, the Furry-day con- 
tinued to be observed, as at this present time, with 
much seal and enjoyment. 


Fkw have lived 
As we have lived, unsevered ; our young life 
Was but a summer's frolic : we have been 
Like two babes passing hand in hand along 
A sunny bank of flowers. The busy world 
Goes on around us, and its multitudes 
Pass by me, and I look them in the face, 
But cannot read such meaning as I read 
In this of thine : and thou too dost but move 
Among them for a season, but returnest 
With a light step and smiles to our old seats, 
Our quiet walks, our solitary bower. 
Some we love well ; the early presences 
That were first round us, and the silvery tones 
Of those most far-away and dreamy voices 
That sounded all about us at the dawn 
Of our young life, — these, as the world of things 
Sets in upon our being like a tide, 
Keep with us, and are ever uppermost. 
And some there are, tall, beautiful, and wise, 
Whose step is heavenward, and whose souls have past 
Out from the nether darkness, and been born 
Into a new and glorious universe, 
Who speak of things to come ; but there is that 
In thy soft eye and long-accustomed voice 
Would win me from them all. 

For since our birth, 
Our thoughts have flowed together in one stream : 
All through the seasons of our infancy 
The same hills rose about us— the same trees, 
Now bare, now sprinkled with the tender leaf, 
Now thick with full dark foliage ; the same church, 
Our own dear village-church, has seen us pray, 
In the same seat, with hands clasped side by side ; 
And we have sung together ; and have walked, 
Full of one thought, along the homeward lane ; 
And so were we built upwards for the storm 
That on my walls hath fallen unsparingly, 
Shattering their frail foundations ; and which thou 
Hast yet to look for, — but hast found the help 
Which then I knew not — rest thee firmly there ! 

When first I issued forth into the world, 
Well I remember that unwelcome morn, 
When we rote long before the accustomed hour 
By the faint taper-light ; and by that gate 
W e just now swung behind us carelessly, 
I gave thee the last kiss : — I travelled on, 
Giving my mind up to the world without, 
Which poured in strange ideas of strange things, 
New towns, new churches, new inhabitants : — 
And ever and anon some happy child 
Beneath a rose-trailed porch played as I past : 

(I) From Poems, by the Rev. H. Alford. London : Burns. 

3iQitizodbvVjQOglg ' 



And then the thought of thee swept through my soul, 

And made the hot drops stand in either eye : — 

And so I travelled — till between two hills, 

Two turf-enamelled mounds of brightest green, 

Stretched the blue limit of the distant sea, 

Unknown to me before :— then with strange joy, 

Forgetting all, I gazed upon that sea. 

Till I could see the white waves leaping up, 

And all my heart leapt with them :— so I past 

Southward, and neared that wilderness of wave*, 

And stopt upon its brink ; and when the even 

Spread out upon the sky unusual clouds, 

I sat me down upon a wooded cliff, * 

Watching the earth's last daylight fade away, 

Till that the dim wave far beneath my feet 

Did make low moanlngs to the infant moon, 

And the lights twinkled out along the shore; 

Then I looked upwards, and I saw the stars, 

Sirius, Orion, and the Northern wain, 
And the Seven Sisters, and the beacon-flame 
Of bright Arcturus, — every one the same 
As when I shewed them thee.—" But yesternight," 
I said, " she gazed with me upon those stars : 
Why did we not agree to look on them 
Both at one moment every starlight night, 
And think that the same star beheld us bothT 


Life and Writings of Schiller, 

No. I „. 17 

The 8ti1e 21 

Frank Fairlegh, or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 
Pupil, Chap. II » 


The Groac'h of Che Ule of Lok 
(with Illustration) 26 

Popular Year- Book.... 29 

Poitrt . — 
The Friends, (with Illus- 
tration) 31 

London :— Published byT. B.8haepc, 15, Skinner Street,Snow-hilL 
Printed by B. Clat, Bread Street Hill. 

Jigitized by " 


fconfcon ^taga^ne: 


No. 29.] 

MAY 16, 1846. 

PfilCE 1|«T. 

% \t Ffllage Sbmftfrg, 

See page 47. 

Whit is our precise meaning when we speak of a 
nan's cultivating himself 1 And is the power which we 
ascribe to him in using these words a reality or a delusion! 
In the primary use of the word " cultivate," it bears 
too distinct, and broadly distinguished, significations. 
We amy that we cultivate the ground, by which we mean 
we prepare and labour the ground, removing 
t things which obstruct the exercise of its natural 
, and applying such things as our experience has 
at us will stimulate and strengthen them, so that 
r moat effectually put them forth in the production 

of fruits and plants from the seed which is committed 
to it. This is one, and perhaps the original use of the 
word. But we also say that we cultivate the plants and 
fruits themselves; and by that we mean that, applying 
our labour and skill to cause them to be produced in as 
great perfection as possible, we thereby effect a pro- 
gressive improvement, more or less marked, in their 
character and qualities. We know from experience that 
we can do this ; that improvement in the quality of any 
product of the earth is the unfailing result of continued 
and judicious cultivation ; and so uniform and certain 
is this result, that we have come to express our convic- 

)igitizedby VjO( = 



tion of its certainty in the very word which We us* to 
denote the effort to arrive at it. We have caused the 
word "cultivate," as applied to any product of the earth, 
to mean not merely the endeavour to produce it, but 
the improvement in its quality, whieh is the invariable 
consequence of that endeavour, when sufficiently sus- 
tained and rightly directed. When we speak of a man's 
cultivating the apple, we do not mean merely that he 
causes apples to grow, or that he goes on producing 
year after year, unimproved, the sour crab which, we 
believe, was the original progenitor of all the varieties 
of that excellent fruit ; we mean that he is carrying on 
the process, which has already had the effect of convert- 
ing the diminutive and useless crab into the valuable and 
delicious fruit, which, in such varied profusion, adorns and 
enriches our orchards. 

In passing from the primary signification of the word 
" cultivate," as expressing the physical processes in- 
tended to affect the operations of tne earth in the pro- 
duction of fruits, to its application to analogous opera- 
tions upon our moral and intellectual powers, we shall not 
here attempt to follow out the distinction we have drawn 
between its two significations, to the extent of separating 
that operation which corresponds to the cultivation of the 
ground, from that which corresponds to the cultivation of 
its fruits. We believe both to be more or less implied in 
every application of the word to the moral discipline 
which our minds undergo. But of far more importance 
than any amount of success in drawing fine metaphysical 
or logical distinctions between any of the operations of 
our minds, or the terms by which it may be right to 
describe them, is the discovery, and application to our 
conduct in life, of the practical lesson to be drawn from the 
fact, that a word descriptive of physical processes carried 
on every day under our eyes, and the mode of whose 
operation, or at least the external machinery by which 
they are conducted to the desired results, is the subjeot 
of actual observation, has been, by that general consent 
of mankind, more unerring by far than the most refined 
speculations of philosophy, which alone can give cur- 
rency to any particular acceptation of a word, transferred 
to functions of our invisible and spiritual part, of which 
our senses can take no cognisance, and of which, without 
the aid of such material analogies, we should hare a 
very dim and indistinct conception. 

A common understanding of the expression "self- 
cultivation," is that it means something similar to 
"self-education ;" that is, that we conduet the moral and 
intellectual training of our minds for ourselves, instead 
of leaving it to be done by others. But this, though 
undoubtedly implied in it, is only a part, and the least 
important part of its meaning ; it points to the agent 
merely; it leaves unexplained the thing done, and it 
presents no indication of the means by which it is to be 
done. These we find in the analogy furnished by the 
more extended use of the word "self-cultivation" for 
which we contend, namely that, when we speak of self- 
cultivation, we mean a man's cultivating himself, imply- 
ing thereby that, in so doing, he effects upon himself 
an improvement analogous to that which, by .the 
judicious employment of the means suggested by experi- 
ence, the cultivator of any plant or fruit effects upon 
its nature and qualities. 

Do we possess such a power? Can we so cultivate 
_ i] Can we regulate the growth of our moral and 

intellectual powers, so as, in the end, to give the pre- 
ponderance of strength to such of them as will consti- 
tute us beings largely improved in true nobility of 
nature] Such a question, if we have any means what- 
ever of answering it, is unquestionably one of the most 
important which can be addressed to the mind of man. 

It would appear to be a law of our nature — it certainly 
is so in the case of our bodily frame — that our ability to 
perform any act is increased by each effort that we 
make to perform it We do not say this merely in 
reference to the increased skill which practice always 
confers, but to the increased power of the organs em- 

ployed. Workmen, the nature of whose employment 
brings a particular set of muscles constantly into play, 
acquire a decree ef strength in tiiose muscles which is 
truly astonishing, and altogether out of proportion to 
the general strength of their bodies. The arm of a 
blacksmith, for example, though he may be in other 
respects no stronger than ordinary men, becomes, by 
the continual use which he is obliged to make of it, a 
weapon as formidable as the ponderous fore-hammer 
which he wields as if it were a child's toy. In all other 
employments it is the same. Those muscles, which are 
most frequently brought into exercise, become developed 
to an extent much beyond the general growth of the 

On the other hand, where any particular set of muscles 
are kept in an unnatural condition of inactivity, they 
are left behind the rest of the body in its advancement 
to maturity of strength. The experience of most men 
can furnish abundant illustrations of this fact. A limb, I 
so distorted at birth, or by early accident, as to make the | 
natural use of it impossible, or difficult and painful, and 
which in consequence is never or seldom used, remains 
through life in a condition of the most helpless feebleness. 
This is the reason — we know of no other — why, in the 
case of the generality of men, the left hand is weaker 
than the right. The general inclination to use the 
right hand in preference to the left, to whatever cause 
it may be owing, and the consequently greater amount 
of exercise enjoyed by the former, cause it to advance 
far ahead of the other in the attainment of strength. 
It would appear as if exercise — the habitual repetition 
of the acts for Which it was intended by nature— were 
part of the necessary aliment of the muscular part of 
our frame j as essential to its rail development as the 
flow of blood through our veins, the admission of air 
to the lungs, and the mastication, digestion, and assi- 
milation of food are to the preservation of life. Campbell's 
beautiful line, 

" The might that thmbm in a peasant's arm," 

would thus appear, exquisite as is the poetical Image it 
presents, to be founded en a physical error. Might 
cannot continue to slumber in any arm. If it does so 
it dies. It may be noiseless, unobtrusive, putting itself 
forth in hidden directions where its movements escape 
notice, but it has not been asleep. Had it slept, it 
Would not have been to be found when wanted, nor been 
able to step forth into vigorous action when the necessity 
ror its appearance arose. 

Into tne rationale of this arrangement of Nature it is 
unnecessary to enter. No matter whether we are able or 
not to explain, why or how it is, that every exercise of 
our muscles In the mode intended by Nature adds to 
their strength, and that, by neglecting or avoiding to 
-exercise them, we prevent them from acquiring the 
strength necessary for enabling them to maintain their 
due place in our system ; it is enough for us to know that 
the net is so — that it is a law, upon whose uniform 
operation We can repose with unerring certainty. It 
points out to us the means by which we can bring our 
bodily frame to the highest state of perfection of which 
its original constitution will admit ; and it also indi- 
cates to us, by a very natural analogy, a means by which 
we may probably reach the utmost attainable perfection 
of our moral nature — strengthening what is good — weatk> 
ening and deadening what is evil. 

The influence of habit, or of the frequent repetition, 
of such acts as are the object of any natural tendency, 
appetite, or desire, in increasing the intensity of the 
natural feeling which prompts to their performance, i^ 
matter of the commonest observation. It proves to xx«. 
that we have, in one class of cases at least, reason fior- 
inferring the existence of an analogy between the bo*J^y 
and the mind in regard to the increase of strength 
derived by any organ of either from the frequent exercisae 
of its functions. For the desire, or appetite, though cloeely 
related to the body, and incapable, perhaps, of beitfcgg 

p i g i uzed tv 



exercised otherwise than through its instrumentality, is 
in itself a purely mental affection ; and, as it undeniably 
derives continued accessions of strength from the simple 
fact of being repeatedly nut forth, we have it thus proved 
that one class of mental affections does derive strength 
from exercise ; and we 4 therefore do no violence to the 
most cautious principles of reasoning when we infer, as 
a matter of the highest probability, that it is a general 
law, that all our powers, moral and intellectual, as well 
as bodily, derive their strength from continued and well 
regulated exercise, and dwindle away, sicken, and die 
in the absence of that necessary aliment 

It is therefore no delusion, but a great practical truth, 
that we can cultivate ourselves, as a gardener cultivates a 
rich fruit, so as to make ourselves in the end something 
very different from, and infinitely superior to, the unpro- 
mising affair which we found ourselves at starting; that 
we can cause what is good in us to grow in magnitude and 
strength, until it becomes the predominating part of our 
being ; and that we can reduce the evil to such a con- 
dition of feebleness and insignificance, that it shall, in 
the end, almost cease to give us any annoyance. And 
the mode of cultivation which we are to adopt, is just the 
continued and regular exercise of those feelings and 
principles of action which we wish to cause to predomi- 
nate, and systematically retaining in a state of inactivity 
those which we wish to weaken and destroy. 

It is a mistake, we suspect, often fallen into— at least 
we have ourselves been conscious of an unacknowledged 
feeling of the kind,— to feel as if it were hopeless, and 
therefore scarcely a doty, to attempt to enter upon the 
exercise of a virtue to which we are conscious of not 
possessing a strong natural tendency, or of possessing, 
perhaps, a tendency to its opposite vice. Under the in- 
fluence of this mistake, the utmost that is done is to 
allow our virtuous aspirations to evaporate in mere 
longings after the possession of a better spirit, as aim- 
less and unpractical as the wishes of a man of unattractive 
personal appearance that his limbs were better formed, 
and his features more regular and expressive. There is 
a sort of imagination, that virtuous actions are to be 
expected only from men so constituted as that to act 
virtuously costs them no effort; and thus, instead of 
manfully setting about being virtuous, we are too apt, 
even in our best moods, to satisfy ourselves with merely 
wishing that we were so. We invert the true order of 
things. We expect to find ourselves at the goal before 
we have entered upon the course. We exemplify the 
fbUy of the man immortalized by the Greek Joe Miller, 
Hieroelee, who having been nearly drowned in an 
attempt to swim, resolved never again to touch water 
until he had become perfect in the art. It is, we may 
rely upon it, as true in morale, that a virtuous spirit is 
only to be attained by continued and sustained efforts 
to perform virtuous deeds, as it is, in physics, that the art 
•f swimming can only be acquired by repeated attempts 
to swim. 

There is a certain amount of honesty in abstaining 
from acts, the performance of which is generally accepted 
as evidence of an inclination, which we are conscious 
wt do not possess, towards any particular virtue. We can- 
not help, amid all our disapprobation for his irregularity 
ef conduct, feeling some sort of respect for the man 
wJ» disdains to appear better than he really is. It is 
nAeaiably one point of goodness, not to be a hypocrite. 
Bat let us not make more of it than it is worth, nor fall 
into the mistake of accepting the reverse of wrong for 
rifkt. Hypocrisy has been very happily, but not quite 
MBunately, described to be an homage which vice ren- 
tettto virtue. It is an acknowledgment of the supe- 
rior excellence of the latter, and so far serves a useful 
Kthat it bears public testimony to a truth. The 
itaelf is a right thing, and the withholding of 
^•aarious crime ; but, to describe hypocrisy truly, we 
"""** add something more to the definition. Its essence 
in this, that it is an homage paid by vice to 
to serve the purposes of vice ; that it is a yielding 

of outward reverence to the good, in order more securely 
to bestow the affections of the heart upon the evil. The 
bad man who refuses to put on the outward appearance 
of a regard for virtue which he does not feel, is one step 
further removed from utter reprobation, than he who 
endeavours, by a show of outward reverence for virtue, 
to secure a larger license for vicious indulgence ; but 
only one step. He is more offensive, without being 
more respectable, than he who, though feeling no de- 
sire, and making no effort, after amelioration of character, 
shows so far a deference for what he knows to be right, 
as to cast a decent veil over his moral deformities. And 
he is not only offensive, but a fool, if he makes his boasted 
dislike of hypocrisy an excuse for holding back from that 
course of virtuous endeavour, which we believe to be the 
only means within our reach of acquiring, and rearing 
up to maturity of strength, virtuous inclinations. 

Let no man, therefore, who truly desires to become 
better than he is, suffer his consciousness of the present 
want of strong moral principle, or of a real inclination 
for what he knows to be right, to deter him from the 
endeavour to act as these feelings would prompt him to do 
if he possessed them. If he feels humiliated by the reflec- 
tion that his conduct speaks a different language from 
his heart, and fears that, on that account, he may be 
chargeable with hypocrisy, let him console himself by 
reflecting, that, in adopting the outward demeanour, the 
habits, and practices of virtue, he is taking* the most 
effectual means in his power for bringing round his 
heart to a right tone of moral feeling ; and that, so long 
as the object of the appearance of virtue which he puts 
on, is that he may thereby gain the reality, he is free 
from that which constitutes the very essence of hy- 

Let us take, for example, the case of a man who is 
naturally of an avaricious disposition — of slow and re- 
luctant sympathies for the sufferings of others, and 
whose habitual inclination, when he sees any one in 
need of assistance, is to pass by on the other side. If 
such a man, impressed by some means with the persua- 
sion that he would be a better man, happier, and more 
estimable, if his heart were more open to sympathy for the 
distresses of his neighbours, and his hand more ready to 
relieve them, continues to act on the impression that a 
change of his natural disposition must precede any 
available attempt on his part to change the course of his 
outward actions, he will never succeed in changing 
either. Mere wishes, not carried out into action, will be as 
little productive of permanent effect, as the slight breeze 
which ruflles the surface of the lake. The breeze falls, 
and the water returns to its former condition of calm 

Elacidi ty. The slight sickly seed of sympathy within 
im, will sicken yet more and more from the want of its 
proper nourishment, until at last it sinks beyond all 
possibility of recovery. But, on the other hand, let him 
be^in by doing, no matter how grudgingly, — with what 
constraint upon his inclinations,— that which the feelings 
he desires to possess would prompt him to do in the 
circumstances if he had them— let him give, however 
unwillingly,— let him act the part of the good Samaritan, 
with however bad a grace, — and let him but continue sted- 
fastly so doing ; the selfish hardness of his heart will 
by degrees give way under the repeated strokes of this 
wholesome discipline ; the sympathies forcibly called into 
action will acquire the habit of coming spontaneously ; 
the habits of his mind, the tendency of his feelings, will 
fall into a new track, over which they will travel with 
ease and vigour ; that which was at first a painful con- 
straint will grow to be a pleasurable impulse; by a 
moral chemistry, analogous to that by which we convert 
the food we eat into a part of our bodily frame, the 
mind, daily nourished upon virtuous habits, wiU assimi- 
late them into virtuous principles ; until, by this course 
of set/cultivation, the whole character of the man is 
changed : the crab is converted into an apple. A 

We might go over the whole catalogue of the virtues / 
in like manner, and illustrate by each of them the prin- ^ 




ciple of self-cultivation which we have been endeavouring 
to enforce. We might show that there is no one quality 
which gives a man a pre-eminence over his fellows, which 
is not, to a greater or less degree, within the reach of 
whoever will take the trouble of placing himself under 
the requisite training for its attainment ; that, making 
the proper allowance for constitutional differences, the 
existence of which it would be folly to deny, every 
quality of which a seed, however minute, exists in the 
mind, may be made to grow up into strength, or sink 
into inanition, according to the direction which we give 
to our active habits. 

The advantage of this mode of looking at the ques- 
tion of self-training, is that it is pre-eminently practical ; 
that it clears away from the subject the haze which 
invests it, as long as we speak of the mind, its faculties, 
or inclinations, as things to be moved or affected by 
the will. We feel assured that we speak to the expe- 
rience of many of our readers, — that we recall to their 
minds the recollection of many a feeling of anxious 
bewilderment, connected with that portion of their lives 
when the mind most perplexes itself with high and 
abstruse questions — the period of emerging from early 
childhood, when we refer to the inevitable obscurity 
attending such precepts as direct us to be this or be 
that, but fail to indicate what we are to do in order to 
be what is required. How often, after listening with 
submissive reverence to the sage and serious counsels of 
an affectionate parent — admirable in every thing but 
the want of a distinct practical bearing — does the child 
depart, his heart glowing with a longing for the purity 
of heart, the heavenly serenity of temper, the resolute 
courage in the path of duty, which have been so feelingly 
urged upon him, but his mind hopelessly perplexed 
with the inquiry, to which he can find no satisfactory 
answer, "How am I to set about it? What thing 
am I to do that I may attain all thisr He feels that he 
eannot lay his hand upon the mind itself, and make it 
abide until he has moulded it according to the model set 
before him ; and he does not know what else he can do. 
How great a relief would he not find from his perplexity in 
the simplicity, the directness, the almost mechanical 
practicability of the precept, which, bidding him give 
up as useless the attempt to produce a permanent effect 
upon the mind by a mere effort of volition, however 
sustained, or by any other means pointed directly at the 
mind itself, shows him how he can accomplish the object 
by entering upon a course of action involving no mys- 
tery as to means, and every step of which is placed 
under the direct and undivided control of the will ! 

If we are right in the view we have taken of this sub- 
ject, it follows that no original faultiness of constitution 
can ever be a sufficient excuse for permanent degradation 
of character. Whatever may be the case with regard to 
occasional outbursts of natural temper or disposition, no 
man can go on saying with truth of any course of action 
to the end of the chapter, "I could not help it" There 
is nothing which we cannot help, unless it be the height 
of our stature, or the hue of our skin. These we cannot 
alter " by taking thought ; " but, in other respects, we 
are our own gardeners, having it in our power to make 
of ourselves very much what we please, to cause one 
branch to grow and another to wither away, as we find to 
be most conducive to the eventual perfection of our 

No. I. 


Thi contemplation of living nature has always 
riveted the attention of thoughtful men, and opened 
innumerable sources of the purest enjoyment to the 

inquiring intellects of every age. The numberless 
forms of beauty and grandeur which crowd this uni- 
verse, have such a deep significance, that all truth- 
seeking minds must stand and gaze reverently! till the 
great phenomena are understood. 

When we consider that millions upon millions of 
living beings, each possessing an organization the mys- 
teries of which baffle all the acuteness of our philosophy, 
present daily subjects for speculation, it is no matter of 
surprise to find multitudes drawn to the spectacle. The 
theme is not deep and recondite, for beauty is here 
united with simplicity, whilst a rich diversity of fects 
ensures a constant flow of interest. 

The subjects of natural history are ever at hand; ill 
parts of the earth, every ocean region, and the wide far- 
stretching aerial spaces, pour forth a stream of life for 
our contemplation. Thus the world is but one great 
cabinet of wonders, open to all who have acquired the 
ability to use it rightly. How pitiable to live in this 
vast museum of nature, ignorant of the beauties sur- 
rounding us, seeing no mystery, and therefore impressed 
by no reverence ! Such resemble the rustic, who walked 
without interest through a gallery, rich in the great 
works of many ages, but was, in the next hour, thrown 
into ecstasies by the tumbles of a harlequin. The 
countryman did not understand the objects displayed ; 
hence his mind kindled not. In like manner, indif- 
ference to the great facts of nature arises from our igno- 
rance of those bright facta, and glorious revelations, 
which light up with a mysterious splendour the whole 
system of nature. 

Let ub, therefore, look into the universe of life : let us 
gaze upon the countless proofs of wisdom, and good- 
ness, in the worlds of animated existence ; assured that, 
from the minutest invisible animalculsa, through 
every order of being, we shall find matter to enlarge 
the intellect and improve the heart. 

It is, therefore, our purpose to furnish a series of 
articles, comprehending the most important and inte- 
resting facts in natural history, so arranged that eadk 
department shall have its due share of attention, andaU 
its parts presented in a certain number of consecutive 
papers. Each division of a subject will be discussed 
before proceeding to the next ; and thus the reader will 
an unbroken and full view of the whole 


We commence with the inhabitants of the air, a de- 
partment of Natural History abounding in diversified 
and striking facts. From the age of Aristotle to the 
present period, Ornithology has won for itself the atten- 
tion of the most distinguished zoologists, who have 
devoted their best years to the illustrations of its facts 
and principles. Some, carried away by their enthu- 
siasm, have given up, for a time, the pleasures of 
civilization, penetrated into wild regions, and made 
their homes in almost inaccessible forests, for the better 
observation of the habits and instincts of the feathered 
tribes. Nor let any too hastily conclude such pursuits 
beneath the dignity of man. God is known by his 
works; and the glory of the Eternal may be as clearly 
manifested by the organization of a bird, as by the 
structure of a planet. 

It is evident that birds must be classed according to 
their several natures, in order that a clear survey may 
be taken of their history. No extensive subject can be 
studied, without some arrangement of its facts ; and 
the better the disposition, the greater will be the 

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facility given to the student in prosecuting his re- 
searches. We do not intend to describe minutely the 
the various systems of classification advocated by dif- 
ferent authors, as a sentence or two will suffice for 
stating the principles on which all classification is 

If two birds are seen at the same time, one feeding 
on land, the other in the water, no person, however 
ignorant of ornithology, would place them in the same 
order. We would call the one a land, the other a water 
bird. This is the primary division made by the cele- 
brated English naturalists, Willougbby and Kay, whose 
system was published about the year 1676. They 
divide the whole feathered creation into land and water 
birds — an arrangement which is both* simple and natural. 
Again, we may perceive a striking dissimilarity between 
two land birds; and this diversity requires further 
classification. One may be a bird of prey, the other a 
feeder on grain. All of the first kind, we should class 
by themselves, and call the whole order rapiores, from 
the Latin word raptor, which denotes a plunderer. The 
feeders on grain we should designate by the term 
Granivori, signifying grain eaters. These divisions 
we call orders. 

But we might discover some remarkable differences 
between the birds in one of these orders ; as, for 
instance, the eagle and the owl are both placed in the 
order rapiores ; but they are widely separated by some 
obvious peculiarities. 

Hence arises the necessity for a further division. The 
eagles would be classed by themselves, under the name 
/akomda, which includes all birds of the falcon kind. 
The owls we should arrange in a group, by the term 
striffuUe* a word derived from strix, the Latin for an 
ewL These subdivisions are called families; and, in a 
regular system, would thus be placed. 
Order Raptores, 

First family, fakonidcs* 

Second family, strigidas. 

These remarks may serve to illustrate the principles 
of scientific classification ; and the following outline of 
what is called the Linncean system, may more clearly 
exemplify the usual methods of classification. 

First order, raptores, or birds of prey ; which includes 
vultures, eagles, owls, and butcher-birds. 

Second order, pica, or pies. This includes numerous 
birds? such as the crow, bird of paradise, cuckoo, and 

Third order, passeres; a large order, including the 
pigeon, thrush, finches, robins, &c 

Fourth order, gaUina ; comprehending all the poultry 
kind : such as the pheasant, peacock, and turkey. 

Fifth order, gratlas. These are wading birds, as the 
heron, bittern, woodcock, and snipe. 

Sixth order, anseres, including all of the geese and 

This arrangement is not given as the most perfect, 
but as sufficiently explicit for the general reader. The 
satvralist is well aware of the imperfections clinging to 
■est systems of classification; but it would be useless 
to weary the reader with comparisons between the classi- 
fications of Linnaeus, Pennant, Cuvier, and Temminck. 
ler would the most enthusiastic ornithologist be much 
t&Aed by an analyzation of the Quinary system, with 
is orders, tribes, and families of Jives. 

We shall now proceed to notice some facts connected 
i&k the organization and habits of birds, which may 
pesare the reader to enter with advantage into the 
wiik of the ensuing articles. 

fkgto of Birds.— The first phenomenon which attracts 
As attention of those who observe the peculiarities of 
Mvfa, is that of flight The easy and beautifully undu- 
fctarj motion of an animal body through the air, com- 
9*fc the attention of the most sluggish. 

Hew do birds fly 1 is a question which a child may 

ask, but to which many men are unable to reply. Most 
have a notion that the bird is somehow raised by the 
wings striking against the air, but here the ideas stop. 

The act of flying is the result of aperies of complicated 
and beautiful agencies, illustrating the character of that 
infinite wisdom, which is equally adorable, whether ma- 
nifested in the workings of the solar system, or deve- 
loped in the muscular action of a winged animal. 

Lei us notice a bird in the act of rising from the 
ground. The animal does not rely first upon its wings, 
but uses the legs to assist it in making a spring upwards, 
by which it clears the ground, and secures air-room for 
the action of the wings. 

Any one who observes the rising of a bird, must 
notice the crouch by which it prepares for the spring ; 
and which may be compared to the plunge made by a 
diver into the water. So essential is the action of the 
legs in this spring:, that birds with very short legs, as 
the swift, rarely alight upon the ground, as if conscious 
of the difficulty of rising. 

When the bird has clearly risen from the ground, the 
agency of the wings is at once applied. As the arms of 
a swimmer, sweeping through the water, give the body 
an impulse, so the wings of a bird, striking another 
fluid, sends the animal forwards or upwards, according 
to the direction of the impulse. When the wings are raised 
to make the impelling stroke, they are kept as closely 
folded as possible, in order to diminish the resistance of 
the air ; but, in making the stroke, each wing is fully 
expanded, to render that resistance as great as possible. 
Thus the rower feathera his oar, or turns the edge to the 
wind when bringing it forwards, but presents the whole 
breadth of the blade to the water in making the stroke. 
By such a series of rapid strokes the flight is performed. 

But a further provision for facilitating this aerial loco- 
motion must be noticed. The larger bones of a bird are 
hollow, and without marrow ; these cavities are filled 
with air from the lungs when the bird flies, and thus the 
body becomes much lighter than is possible in the case 
of an animal whose bones are solid or filled with marrow. 
Besides the air cells just named, there are numerous ca- 
vities interspersed through the body, into which air is 

The air is rarefied by the heat of the bird's body, and 
must therefore act upon it as gas upon a balloon, tend- 
ing to raise the whole trunk upwards. 

This inflation of the body must evidently be an im- 
portant auxiliary in promoting the flight of birds, 
especially of those which soar to great heights. We 
need hardly remind the reader that all the feathers of a 
full grown nird are hollow, as the inspection of a quill 
will show ; these are also filled with air in flying ; so 
that every part of a bird during flight is filled with gas 
like a balloon. In addition to all these means, birds 
are furnished with muscles of great strength; those 
which move a swallow's wing being at least seventy 
times stronger in proportion to the other muscles, than 
those which move the human arm. From all these 
combinations directed to one end, arise those varied, 
graceful, and easy motions, exhibited in the long sweep 
of the eagle, and the circling flight of the pigeon. 

Hence we cannot wonder at the failure of all attempts 
to enable man to fly ; for no machinery can provide the 
human body with air cells, by which its specific gravity 
might be diminished ; nor can an arm acquire muscular 
power to move artificial wings, with the force which a 
bird exerts in each of its numerous strokes. 

Hence we must ever yield to birds the realms of air, 
in spite of all our balloons and highly-wrought mecha- 
nical devices. 

The Feet of Birds.— These, though of less importance 
to most birds than the wings, require a few observations. 
The feet and legs of birds are as beautifully adapted to 
their several modes of life as the wings. This, Indeed, 
we should expect, for all the productions of an infinite 
designer must be equally perfect The differences be- 
tween the feet of birds have a great influence in fixing 

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their place in ornithological arrangement*, for it is 
obvious that the duck's paddle-shaped feet fit it for the 
water; whilst those of the swallow, or sparrow, are 
formed for perching and clinging to branches, twigs, or 
other projections. 

Those birds which seek their food in marshes, and 
shallow waters, as the heron, require long legs to assist 
them in wading; and with these they are provided; 
whereas, such limbs would be an incumbrance to the 
hawk, which requires a powerful grasping apparatus. 

Most persons, doubtless, have observed a bird sleeping 
on its perch : and some may have wondered how a sleep- 
ing bird maintains its position on one leg during the 
most tempestuous night, when the branches of the 
gnarled oak are tossed to and fro by the storm ; yet there 
the little slumberer rests safely, whilst our strongest 
houses tremble to their foundation. The mechanism 
of the bird's leg secures this result without effort. The 
moment a bird perches upon a branch the weight of its 
body causes the leg to bend at the joint ; this bending 
tightens a set of muscles which descend to the toes ; 
this stretching of the muscles forces the claws to con- 
tract round the substance on which the bird stands. 
Thus the claws are kept tightly grasped round the 
twig till the bird chooses to move. Such is the 
simple and beautiful mechanism by which the smallest 
of the feathered race maintains its hold by one leg 
during the longest night ; and a bird is most completely 
at rest when standing, for this stretching of the muscle 
does not require the slightest labour on the part of a 
bird. The shape of a bird's body requires a peculiar 
organization of the feet. The body projects forward, 
very much, hence the toes must be long, to give a strong 
base of support, and prevent the bird from foiling for- 
ward. All birds have feet and legs, though sometimes 
they are very short ; hence the term anodes (footless), 
given to some, and especially to the birds of paradise, is 
erroneously applied. 

The right of birds — is another point deserving con- 
sideration. The vast height to which some birds soar, 
and their detection of small objects from such immense 
altitudes, prove the possession of Btrong seeing organs. 
It has been proved by repeated experiments, that birds 
can see minute objects at distances beyond the power of 
the human eye, and it is supposed that the carrier 
pigeon is guided in its voyages by the eye alone. Soar- 
ing circle above circle, it gains at last a view of its well- 
known home, and flies direct to its "destination. 

The kite frequently rises to a height beyond our view, 
but mice, and the smallest animals, can be discerned 
with ease from its loftiest ranges. 

By what peculiar organization of the eye do birds 
possess this astonishing power of sight? The optic 
nerve — is very much expanded, and thus numerous 
sensations are received by a bird to which our organs are 
insensible. The eyes of birds are also much larger in 
proportion to their size than those of other animals ; 
hence some birds are completely overpowered by the 
full glare of the sun, and come abroad in the evening, 
when their exquisitely constructed organs are able to 
extract abundant light from the dimness of twilight. 

The circle of vision must be very great in birds, for 
an eye being placed on either side of the head, they 
must take in nearly two semicircles of the whole hori- 
zon. A man sees the same object with both eyes, but a 
bird may see at the same time, a tree on one side, and a 
man on the other ; and each perception be distinct and 
accurate. The eyes of birds are defended from injuries 
in their rapid flights, and from the intense glare of the 
sun, by a kind of curtain, which can be drawn at will 
over the eye. It is transparent, and thus the organ of 
vision is protected, and sight not obstructed. The eye- 
lids form an additional defensive curtain, for these, 
being large, especially the lower one, are of themselves 
a secure protective case. 

Hearing of birds. — When we observe the human ear, 
we see an extended conformation fitted to collect sounds 

11- !i 

No such structure is perceived in the generality of 
bird 8 ; hence some have imagined that their power of 
hearing must be feeble. This however is not the fact 
Birds have no external ear, because such an appendage 
to the head would have interfered with their movement* 
through the air, but they possess an auditory conform- 
ation perfectly adapted to their natures. The aptness 
for imitating sounds and musical compositions, proTes 
great quickness of ear. Birds have been known to 
listen with every symptom of delight to pieces of music, 
and to manifest anger when their favourite melodies 
have been exchanged for others. Thus a pigeon listened 
to the performance of Madame Piozzi on the harpsi- 
chord, and detected any variation from correctness, 
which the lady often made to test its delicacy of ear. 

The nightingale distinguishes a rival in song, when 
the distance requires the nicest attention and quickest 
ear in man to detect the remote melody. Thus the ab- 
sence of an external ear must be compensated by great 
delicacy of structure in the internal organ. 

Voice of Birds. — The variety, strength, and beauty of 
the sounds uttered by these inhabitants of the air, de- 
light all persons. As our observations must be brief, 
the reader must not expect a treatise on the song of 
birds. Such notices will be given, as opportunity offers, 
in the subsequent papers. 

The lungs and windpipe of birds may be compared to 
an organ or bagpipe ; the lungs supply the wind, and 
the windpipe represents the pipes. The sounds pro- 
duced by some have a startling resemblance to those 
proceeding from a hautboy, or clarionet ; and the 
various windings of the windpipe may be likened to the 
turns of a French horn, or the divisions of a bassoon. 

Muscles of great power have been demonstrated by 
anatomists to exist in the vocal organs of birds noted 
for their power of voice ; and the cries of many birds, 
as storks and geese, reach us when they are more than a 
league above the earth. When the rarity of the higher 
parts of the air, and the downward passage of the sound, 
are considered, we must regard the vocal organs of the*e 
birds as possessing five or six times the strength of the 
human voice. 

There are evidently certain notes which birds of all 
species understand, especially the alarm cry, sounded on j 
the approach of danger. Thus, let a hawk be descried 
by a swallow, the latter raises a peculiar cry : from | 
every spot a host of other birds, swallows, sparrows;, | 
robins, finches, &c, rush to the place, as if to meet in j 
battle array their foe. 

Birds which move in troops by night, as geese, 
cranes, and the like, have a note which enables them to 
avoid straggling in the dark. There is, also, a. peculiar 
cry uttered by many birds, upon the discovery of a large 
feeding ground, which never fails to bring troops of 
their species to the place. Hence, for strife, or peace, 
there are fixed sounds, understood by all birds of the 
same race, and, in some cases, by all birds whatever. 

The variations in the notes of birds are numerous, 
and result from differences in the windpipe, just as 
large organ pipes produce a deeper tone than those of a 
smaller diameter. Some connexion appears to exist 
between the nature of the bill and the character of the 
song ; for all soft-billed birds have mellow and plaintive j 
voices, whilst those of the hard-billed kind are lively 
and harsher. The former also sing more from the 
lower part of the throat than the latter, and thus acquire 
that rich mellowness of note, possessed in its highesti 
perfection by the nightingale. 

Birds of the same species do not keep to one note ;j 
and White illustrates this fact in his account of some 
owls. He says, " A friend remarks that moat owls 
hoot in B flat ; but that one went almost half a note! 
below A." " A neighbour of mine remarks that the 
owls about the village, hoot in their different key*, in 
G flat, or F sharp, in B flat, and A flat. The note of the 
cuckoo varies in different individuals; for about Sell 
bourne wood they were mostly in D. He heard twJ 

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sing together, the one in D, the other in D •harp, 
which made a disagreeable concert; he afterwards 
heard one in D sharp, and some in C." 

Here this introductory article must be brought to a 
•lose. In the next part, we shall describe the habits, 
uses, and peculiarities of birds of prey, illustrating 
those topics by appropriate facts and observations. 


[Second Notice.] 

" Even the lifeless 
for tbouffatt «f Him." 

Holt Scripture, and all the ancient writers, agree 
that the site of Calvary was formerly without the city ; 
but ft has been brought within its bounds by a later 
disposition of the walls. The credit of the whole church, 
Mr. Williams says, for fifteen hundred years, is in some 
measure involved in the tradition relating to the Holy 
Sepulchre; and we are bound to weigh with jealousy 
the evidenoe adduced by Dr. Robinson and Dr. Clarke, 
which would convict of fraud and hypocrisy the brightest 
lights of the universal Church, at a period which we are 
taught to regard as " uncomipt," when Christianity was 
" most pure, and, indeed, golden." " Either they were 
impostors," says Mr. Williams, "or they had sufficient 
evidence to believe thai they had really recovered the 
Sepulchre of out Lord. And it is remarkable thai the 
strongest objection that has been urged against the 
authority of the tradition, is such as it would have been 

most easy to obviate — such as an impostor 

would have been certain to foresee, and most careful to 

We have not space to follow Mr. Williams in his long 
controversy with Dr. Robinson, respecting the Holy 
Sepulchre, but shall now proceed to abridge his account 
of that holy place, and the localities around it. The 
Sepulchre itself consists of two chambers, whereof the 
eater one is said to have been built by St. Helena, 
while the inner one is represented as the very cave, 
hewn out of the rock, where was the tomb of our Lord. 
The very spot where the holy body is said to have lain, 
is now covered with marble to protect it from injury. 
* The tomb was designed by Joseph for his own burial, 
■e that it had but one receptacle ; and, as it had known 
bo occupant before, so we may be well assured that it 
would know none after it had been so honoured, but 
would be preserved inviolate by its believing owner, 
who would provide himself another resting-place, pro- 
bably in the same sacred garden." The Sepulchre 
stands in the centre of a circular building, covered with 
a handsome dome left open at the top, in order that 
the tomb may be exposed to the canopy of heaven. 
Opposite to the entrance of the cave is the door of the 
Greek church, supposed to occupy the site of the Ba- 
afica erected by Constantino. This is the finest church 
in Jerusalem, excepting only the magnificent church of 
St James, attached to the Armenian eonvent on Mount 
Sea. It is of large dimensions, and surmounted by a 
eapola of considerable size. A cloister runs completely 
round the church without, forming the means of com- 
munication between the sacred localities, common to all 
the Christiana. 

The church of the Franciscans is a meaner building, 
to the north of the Sepulchre, and is called the Church 

of the Apparition. Mr. Williams thus describe* the 
other parts of the sacred building : " The Armenians 
worship in one of the galleries of the Rotunda; the 
Syrians have a small chapel in the thickness of the 
wall to the west of the Sepulchre; while the Copls 
have their altar in a small erection, scarcely large 
enough to admit the officiating priest, at the west of 
the cave itself. There are also apartments in the neigh- 
bourhood of the respective chapels, assigned to the 
monks of these several churches, who wait continually 
on their ministry at the sacred places, and live im- 
mured, as it were, within the walls; while other chapels, 
commemorative of events connected with our Saviour's 
Passion, in various parts of the building, occupy the 
remainder of the sacred enclosure, which is of consider- 
able extent. 

" The entrance is from a paved court on the south 
side, through the westernmost of two handsome door- 
ways, with an architrave in bas-relief, representing our 
Lord's triumphant entry into Jerusalem. The first 
object that attracts attention within the building is the 

stone of unction in the vestibule Proceed ing 

a few paces down this [south] cloister, [the pilgrim] 
finds on the right a flight of eighteen steps leading up 
to the chapel of the Holy Golgotha ; and if he be an 
oriental he will put off his shoes from his feet, and 
approach with reverential awe the scene of his Lord's 
last Passion, and draw near on bended knees to the 
very spot of the Crucifixion. If he be an Englishman 
or American, the attendant priest will not look for sacn 
a deportment; he will expect nothing more than a look 
of indifference, or at most of idle curiosity, and will 
be prepared for sceptical objections ; he will even look 
for an expression of incredulity, and an apparent pre- 
determination to disbelieve. It is sad to think that a 
person in Frank habit, kneeling at Calvary and the 
Sepulchre of Christ, and offering up his devotions at 
these sacred spots, venerated by Christians of all nations 
for fifteen hundred years, should be as it were a monster 

to those who witness it ; but such is the fact At 

the east end of the north side of the double chapel he 
will see a platform raised about a foot and a half from 
the floor, covered with white marble ; and, under the 
altar of the orthodox he will observe a hole in the 
marble, communicating with a deep bore in the solid 
rock, in which he will be told that our Saviour's cross 
was erected. Near this, on his right he will see another 
incision in the marble, showing a fissure in the rock, 
said to have been occasioned by the earthquake which 
occurred at the time of the Crucifixion. 1 If ne examine 
it minutely he will perceive that ' the insides do testify 
that art had no hand therein, each side to other being 
answerably rugged, and these where inaccessible to the 
workmen.' The continuation of this cleft may be seen 
in the chapel of the Forerunner, below Golgotha. ..." 

We are then conducted to the cave where St Helena 
is supposed to have discovered the cross of our Lord :— 

" Descending from Golgotha, and passing down the 
cloister towards the east, we come to a wide staircase, 
leading down twenty-nine steps to a chapel of the 
Armenians, where they show the throne of St Helena ; 
and then, by thirteen more, into the cave where the 
cross of our Lord is said to have been discovered. 
There the rock overhangs the chapel, which is formed 
in it* cavity. 

" The Invention of the Holy Cross, which is comme- 
morated in the English calendar on May 3, would seem 
to be historically connected with St Helena's visit, and 
the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre ; and a writer, who 
is least disposed to admit the reality of the discovery, 
is forced to acknowledge, that * notwithstandi n g the 
silence of Eusebius, there would seem to be hardly any 
part of history better accredited than the alleged dis- 
covery of the true cross.' 

(1) " It !■ said to have been rent at the feet of the centurion, and 
to hare produced the exclamation, St. Matt, xxvii. 64." 


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" St. Ambrose is the first extant writer who gives a 
detailed account of the undertaking, and ascribes it to 
St Helena. In his discourse upon the death of Theo- 
dosius, he takes occasion to eulogize the mother of Con- 
stantine, and relates the success of her endeavour to 
possess herself of the Holy Cross. This narrative, 
divested of the flowers of oratory, is simple enough, and 
contains no account of any miracle, unless the very pre- 
servation of the wood deserves to be so considered. 
This father, in argument with St. Chrysostom, relates 
the discovery of three crosses, and that the Cross of our 
Lord was distinguished by the title affixed to it by 
Pilate; not by the restoration of a sick person to 
health, or of a dead corpse to life, as we find in later 

"St. Helena would appear to have been guided in 
this case, as in the case of the Holy Sepulchre, by the 
received and continuous tradition of the native Chris- 
tian church, which reported that the instrument of our 
Lord's crucifixion had been cast aside, in the hurry of 
the preparation of the Passover, into a pit near the 
place of execution, which she caused to be examined, 
and three crosses were actually discovered ; and, however 
strange or startling the fact may appear, it is better 
to suspend the judgment, if we are not satisfied with the 
evidence, than to impute so great a crime as imposture 
and fraud to men who, for ought we know to the con- 
trary, may have been eminent saints." 
, Mr. Williams passes from the Church of the Holy 
Sepulchre to the opposite hill of Moriah ; and he ap- 
pears to have subjected it to a very minute inspection. 
The Mosque of Omar occupies part of its site. It is 
octagonal in form ; its dome is covered with lead, sur- 
mounted by a tall gilt crescent. Beneath the dome is a 
remarkable limestone rock, which appears to be the 
natural surface of the rock of Mount Moriah. Here, 
also, are the Mosque of el-Aksa, with two or three others, 
and the remains of the tower of Antonia. Mr. Williams 
thinks there can be but one opinion that the Mosque 
el-Aksa is the church erected by the Emperor Justinian, 
which he dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and was 
described as placed on the loftiest hill of the city. " I 
firmly believe," says Mr. Williams, " that es-Shakrah 
(the rock} does mark the site of the Most Holy Place, 
as Christians, Jews, and Mahommedans all agree." 

Eusebius, commenting on the predictions of our Lord 
respecting the entire destruction of the Temple, so that 
" there shall not be left here one stone upon another, 
that shall not be thrown down," says, "Just as the pre- 
diction was, are the results in fact remaining; the whole 
Temple and its walls, as well as those ornamented and 
beautiful buildings which were within it, and which 
exceeded all description, having suffered desolation from 
that time to this !" 

After making a longer quotation from Eusebius, Mr. 
Williams adds : — 

" Thus far Eusebius. For myself I look for the accom- 
plishment of the prophecy in its widest and most literal 
sense; and expect that if there be still one stone left 
upon another, which at least is not certain, the mighty, 
though silent, operation of that wonder-working Word 
will in due time bring it down; and who can tell 
whether, before the time of the end, some second Julian 
may not renew the attempt to rebuild the Jewish temple, 
which antichrist alone shall rear, and whether this 
attempt may not result in the destruction of such por- 
tions of it as remain T 

Mr. Williams now proceeds to describe the antiquities 
without the city. 

"We quit the city by the gate of 'our Lady Mary* 
(Bab Sitti Miriam), as the natives term it, more com- 
monly known to the Franks as the St. Stephen's Gate. 
.... Descending now into the Valley of Jehoshaphat 
by a zig-zag path of Bteps down the deep declivity, the 
dry bed of the torrent Kedron is passed by a bridge of 
one arch, a few paces beyond which is the chapel of 
St Mary, on the left, and the garden of Gethsemane on 

the right, between which the most direct path ascends 
to the church of the Ascension, which crowns the centre 
of the three summits of the Mount Olivet, 2,400 feet 
above the level of the Mediterranean Sea." 

After replying to a late severe attack on the tradition 
which marks this as the scene of the last act of our 
Saviour's ministry, Mr. Williams savs : — 

" A very few words may suffice for the description of 
this ruin, for at present it is nothing more. Instead of 
a church there is now a mosque near this site, the keeper 
of which holds the keys of a small portal giving entrance 
into a paved court of some extent, open to the sky, 
around which are ranged the altars of the various Chris- 
tian churches, while the centre is occupied by a small 

circular building, surmounted by a cupola. 

Descending now to the Valley of Jehoshaphat, by a more 
circuitous path, we pass the Cave of the Creed, a curious 
vaulted chamber in ruins, beneath the surface of the 
ground, apparently sunk in the rock, and plastered; 
oblong in form, with six niches on each side facing one 
another, where the apostles are said to have assembled 
to compose the Creed. Further down the mountain 
side is pointed out the spot where our Lord wept over 
the city, and foretold its destruction." 

The Fountain of Siloam is thus described : — 

" The descent to the spring is one of the most pic- 
turesque pieces about Jerusalem. It is effected by a 
flight of steps, much worn by the natives, cut through 
the rock, which is wildly irregular. There are twenty- 
six steps, making the depth about twenty-five feet, for 
the steps are deep. There is a cave in the rock, of no 
great dimensions, roughly hewn, into which the water 

flows from beneath the lowest step From Uie 

chamber there is a channel cut in a serpentine course, 
1,750 feet long, to convey the water to the Pool of Siloam, 
which will next demand attention. To reach it we 
ascend again to the bed of the Kedron, and pass round 

the point of Ophel, a distance of 1,856 feet 

Turning to the right, round a sharp angle of rock, we 
enter the mouth of the valley of the Tvropean, and 
passing under the precipitous rock, which has a small 
channel for the water cut in its base, we soon arrive at 
the Pool of Siloam. 

" The pool itself is a small tank just without 

the fissure, of an oblong form, remarkable for nothing 
but some fragments of marble columns projecting from 
its sides, probably the remains of a church ; the water 
is confined in this or in the rocky basin, and drawn off, 
as occasion requires, to irrigate the gardens beneath. 

" There is every appearance of there having existed 
formerly a much larger reservoir than the present, imme- 
diately to the east of it, confined at the lower end by a 
substantial wall of masonry, which now forms a dry 
bridge, at the south end of which is the ancient tree said 
to mark the spot of Isaiah's martyrdom." 

Of the Pool of Bethesda, Mr. Williams says :— 

" It has been remarked by critics, that St John, by 
his use of the present tense in speaking of Bethesda, 
intimates that it had survived the destruction of Jeru- 
salem, and was still well known when he wrote his 
Gospel, at the close of the first century, which would 
form a strong presumption for its continued preserva- 
tion until the tune of Constantino. The pool is placed 
by this evangelist in the 'sheep-market' but many 
commentators are of opinion that the word gale should 

be supplied in this passage instead of market 

It would appear that the tradition which marks the 
Birket Isratl as the ' Pool of Bethesda,' has much to be 
said in its favour, and I am not aware of any arguments 
against it. The five porches have long since disap- 

We must make one other extract from this chapter, 
and then pass on to Mr. Williams' account of Modern 

" From a very early period [Christians] have been 
taught, rightly or wrongly, to regard a chamber in the 
pile of buildings surrounding the tomb [of David], as 


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the upper room consecrated by the institution of the 
perfecting Sacrament of our Redemption, where also our 
Lord appeared to the assembled apostles after his resur- 
rection, and where the Holy Ghost descended visibly on 
the believers on the day of Pentecost. It is related by 
Epiphanius, that this building, and a few others in its 
vicinity, escaped destruction on the desolation by Titus, 
and that this chamber was the church of the faithful 
after their return from Pella." 

From the account of the present state of the .Holy 
City and its inhabitants, we have merely room for the 
following extracts. 

" The Christian pilgrim who approaches Jerusalem 
for the first time, will probably be disappointed to find 
that his emotions on the first sight of a city, associated 
in his mind from his earliest infancy with all that is 
most sacred, are so much less intense than he antici- 
pated, and that he can look on Mount Olivet and Mount 
Zion with feelings, certainly not of indifference, but of 
much less painful interest than he imagined possible, 
when he thought on them at a distance. The truth is, 
the events transacted here are so great in every view, 
that the mind cannot at once grasp them ; but is, as it 
were, stuptfied by the effort. It takes time to realize 
the truth that this is the home of Scripture History, the 

cradle of the Christian Church 

" If he is journeying from the west, as most pilgrims 
do, he will come in sight of the city about a mile from 
its gates, and will have the least interesting view which 
it presents — merely a dull line of wall, with the Mount 
of Olives rising above. He will, perhaps, have read of 
the desolate appearance of the neighbourhood of the 
city; it is sometimes said to resemble a city of the dead. 
Travellers, who have so written, must have been sin- 
gularly unfortunate in the time of their entrance; for on 
a bright evening, at any time of the year, nothing can 
well be imagined more lively than the scene without the 
Jaffifc Gate. It is then that the inhabitants, of what- 
ever nation, and whatever faith, walk out to ' drink the 
air/ as they express it, and the various companies may 
be seen sauntering about, or reclining on the ground. 

Let him enter the gates, and the delusion which 

its compact and well-built walls, and the appearance of 
its inhabitants, may have produced, will be quickly dis- 
pelled. He no sooner enters the city than desolation 

stares him in the face " 

" Let us suppose him present in Jerusalem during 
the holy week ; he will feel a curiosity to witness the 
ceremonies in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre — let 
ti™ 8°t by all means, at least if he can go to mourn, 
aot to mock or to triumph over the scenes which will 
there be enacted. If he arrives at the great gates of the 
Church about sunset, he will find them closed for a few 
minutes, while the Moslem guardian and his attendants 
perform their devotions. A small window in the door 
will allow him to watch their ceremony, and he may 
learn a lesson of outward propriety and decorum from 
the infidels, which he will look for in vain among the 
worshippers within. On his admission, the first object 
which will excite his astonishment and horror, will be 
the Turkish soldiers of the garrison standing with their 
bayonets fixed, in various parts of the sacred precincts, 
sad about the Holy Cave itself. If he inquire the 
reason of this dreadful profanation, he will be informed 
that the Latins have requested it as a protection against 

molestation from the Greeks ! " 

" But among all the exhibitions of the Christians in 
the Holy City, that which must most scandalize the 
infidels is their shameful divisions, accompanied with 
jealousies and heart-burnings, and not unfrequently 
attended with sanguinary quarrels and acts of violence, 
which call for the interference of the civil powers." 

The principal Christian bodies in the Holy City are 
the Greeks and the Latins; the others are the Geor- 
gians, the Armenians, the Syrians, the Copts, and Ame- 
rican Congregationalists. The Anglican Church, until 
the arrival of Bishop Alexander, in 1842, cannot pro- 

be said to have been represented in Jerusalem. 

e was its representative in Chaidea, Mesopotamia, 
Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and Abyssinia. 

We must now take our leave of Jerusalem, and of Mr. 
Williams' very attractive and instructive volume. Many 
more passages might have been transferred to our pages, 
but for want of room. Those, however, that we have 
given will furnish a foretaste of the gratification which 
a perusal of Mr. Williams' book will not fail to afford. 
It is morosely illustrated by maps and plans, and by 
very clever lithographs and wood-cuts. 




CHAP. in. 

Wi had not more than five minutes left when we 
arrived at Dr. Mildman's door, Coleman affording a 
practical illustration of the truth of the aphorism, that 
" it is the pace that kills;" so that Thomas's injunction, 
"Look sharp, gentlemen," was scarcely necessary to 
induce us to rush up stain two steps at a time. In the 
same hurrv I entered my bed-room, without observing 
that the door was standing ajar rather suspiciously, for 
which piece of inattention I was rewarded by a deluge of 
water, which wetted me from head to foot, and a violent 
blow on the shoulder, which stretched me on the ground 
in the midst of a puddle. That I may not keep the 
reader in suspense, I will at once inform him, that I 
was indebted for this agreeable surprise to the kindness 
and skill of Lawless, who, having returned from his 
pigeon-match half-an-hour sooner than was necessary, 
had devoted it to the construction of what he called a 
" booby trap," which ingenious piece of mechanism was 
arranged in the following manner. The victim's room- 
door was placed ajar, and upon the top thereof a Greek 
Lexicon, or any other equally ponderous volume was 
carefully balanced, and upon this was set in its turn 
a jug of water. If all these were properly adjusted, 
the catastrophe above described was certain to ensue 
when the door was opened. "Fairly caught, by Jove," 
cried Lawless, who had been on the watch. " By Jupiter 
Pluvius, you should have said," joined in Coleman, 
helping me up again ; for so sudden and unexpected had 
been the shook, that I had remained for a minute or 
two just as I had fallen, with a kind of vague expecta- 
tion that the roof of the house would come down upon 
me. " I suppose I have to thank you for that," said I, 
turning to Lawless. " Pray don't mention it, Pinafore," 
answered he ; " what little trouble I had in making the 
arrangement, I can assure you, was quite repaid by its 
success." " 111 certainly put on the gloves to-morrow," 
whispered I to Coleman— to which he replied by a sym- 
pathetic wink, adding, " and now I think you had better 
get ready, more particularly as you will have to find 
out 'how to dress jugged hair,' as the cookery-books 
say." By dint of almost superhuman exertions, I did 
just contrive to get down in time for dinner, though my 
unfortunate "jugged hair," which was any thing but dry, 
must have presented rather a singular appearance. In 
the course of dinner, Dr. Mildman told us that we 
should have the whole of the next day to ourselves, as 
he was obliged to go to Town on business, and should 
not return till the middle of the following one; — an 
announcement which seemed to afford great satisfaction 
to his hearers, despite an attempt made by Cumberland 
to keep up appearances by putting on a look of mourn- 
ful resignation, which, being imitated by Coleman, who, 
as might be expected, rather overdid the thing, failed 
most signally. On returning to the Pupils' room, Lawless 
commenced (to my great delight, as I thereby enjoyed 
a complete immunity from his somewhat troublesome 
attentions) a full, true, and particular account of the 

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say to a ride this afternoon 1 " " Just the thing/ said I, 
" if it is not too expensive for my pocket" " Oh, no," 
replied Coleman ; " Snaffles lets horses at as cheap a rate 
as any one, and good 'una to go too ; does not he, Cum- 
berland V "Eh, what are you talking about V said 
Cumberland, who had just entered the room ; " Snaffles] 
Oh yes, he's the man for horse-flesh. Are you going to 
try and tumble off that fat little cob of his again, 
Fred 1 " "I was thinking of having another try/' replied 
Coleman ; " what do you say, Fairlegh ? Never mind the 
tin, I daresay you have got plenty, and can get more 
when that's gone." " I have got a ten-pound note," an- 
swered I ; " but that must last me all this quarter : how- 
ever, we'll have our ride to-day." " I'll walk down with 
you," said Cumberland ; " I'm going that way ; besides 
it's worth a walk any day to see Coleman mount ; it took 
him ten minutes the last time 1 saw him, and then he 
threw the wrong leg over, so that he turned his face to 
the tail." "Scatukdum magnatum/ not a true bill," re- 
plied Coleman. "Now, come along, Fairlegh, let's get 
ready, and be off." 

During our walk down to Snaffles' stables, Cumberland 
(who seemed entirely to have forgotten my mal & propos 
remark) talked to me in a much more amiable manner 
than he had yet done ; and the conversation naturally 
turning upon horses and riding, a theme always inter- 
esting to me, I was induced to enter into sundry details 
of my own exploits in that line. We reached the Livery 
Stables just as I had concluded a somewhat egotistical 
relation concerning a horse which a gentleman in our 
neighbourhood had bought for his invalid son, but 
which, proving at first rather too spirited, I had under- 
taken to ride every day for a month, in order to get him 
quiet ; a feat I was rather proud of having satisfactorily 
accomplished. " Good morning, Mr. Snaffles ; is Punch 
at home 1 " asked Coleman of a stout red-faced man, 
attired in a bright green Newmarket coat, and top boots. 
"Yes, Sir. Mr. Lawless told me your Governor was 
gone to town, so I kept him at home, thinking perhaps 
you would want him." " That's all right," said Cole- 
man ; "and here's my friend, Mr. Fairlegh, will want a 
nag too." " Proud to serve any gent as is a friend of 
yours, Mr. Coleman," replied Snaffles, with a bob of his 
head towards me, intended as a bow. " What stamp of a 
horse do you like, Sir 1 Most of my nags are out with the 
harriers to-day." " Snaffles, a word with you," interrupted 
Cumberland. " One moment, Sir," said Snaffles to me, as 
he crossed over to where Cumberland was standing. 
"Come and look at Punch; and let's hear what you 
think of him," said Coleman, drawing me towards 
Punch's stable. " What does Cumberland want with 
that man?" asked I. " What, Snaffles? I fancy he owes 
a bill here, and I dare say it is something about that." 
"Oh, is that alU" rejoined I. "Why, what did you 
think it was)" inquired Coleman. "Never mind," I 
replied ; " let's look at Punch." And accordingly I was 
introduced to a little fat, round, jolly looking cob, 
about fourteen hands high, who appeared to me an equine 
counterpart of Coleman himself. After having duly 
praised and patted him, I turned to leave the stable, 
just as Cumberland and Snaffles were passing the door, 
and I caught the following words from the latter, who, 
appeared rather excited : — " Well, if any harm comes of 
it, Mr. Cumberland, you'll remember it's your doing, 
not mine." Cumberland's reply was inaudible, and 
Snaffles turned to me, saying, " I've only one horse at 
home likely to suit you, Sir ; you'll find her rather high 
couraged, but Mr. Cumberland tells me you won't 
mind that." "I have been mentioning what a good 
rider you say you are," said Cumberland, laying a slight 
emphasis on the my, " Oh, I dare say she will do very 
well," replied I. " 1 suppose she has no vice about her." 
"Oh dear, no," said Snaffles, "nothing of the sort- 
James," added he, calling to a helper, " saddle the chest- 
nut mare, and bring her out directly." The man whom 
he addressed, and who was a fellow with a good hu- 
moured, honest face, became suddenly grave, as he 

replied in a deprecatory tone, "The chestnut mare? 
Mad Bess, Sir?" "Don't repeat my words, but do as 
you are told," was the answer ; and the man went away 
looking surly. After the interval of fc a few minutes, a 
stable door opposite was thrown open, and Mad Bess 
made her appearance, led by two grooms. She was a 
bright chestnut, with flowing mane and tail, about fif- 
teen and a half hands high, nearly thorough-bred, and 
as handsome as a picture, but the restless motion of her 
eye disclosing the white, the ears laid back at the 
slightest sound, and a half-frightened, half-wild air, when 
any one went up to her, told a tale as to her temper, 
about which no one in the least accustomed to horses 
could doubt for an instant. " That mare is vicious," 
said I, as soon as I had looked at her. " Oh dear, no, 
Sir, as quiet as a lamb, I can assure you." " Soh, girl ! 
son ! " said Snaffles, in a coaxing tone of voice, attempt- 
ing to pat her ; but Bess did not choose to " son," if by 
"sohing" is meant, as I presume, standing still and 
behaving prettily, for on her master's approach Bhe 
snorted, attempted to rear, and ran back, giving the 
men at her head as much as they could do to hold her. 
" She's a little fresh to-day ; she was not out yesterday, 
but it's all play, pretty creature 1 nothing but play," 
continued Snaffles. " If you are afraid, Fairlegh, don't 
ride her," said Cumberland ; " but I fancied from your 
conversation you were a bold rider, and did not mind a 
little spirit in a horse: you had better take her in 
again, Snaffles." " Leave her alone," cried I, quickly, (for 
I was becoming irritated by Cumberland's sneers, in 
spite of my attempt at self-control) " I'll ride her. 
I'm no more afraid than other people, nor do I mind a 
spirited horse, Cumberland, but that mare is more than 
spirited, she's ill-tempered, — look at her eye !" " Well, 
you had better not ride her, then," said Cumberland. 
" Yes, I will," replied I, for I was now thoroughly roused, 
and determined to go through with the affair, at all 
hazards. I was always, even as a boy, of a determined, 
or, as ill-natured people would call it, obstinate disposi- 
tion, and I doubt whether I am entirely cured of the 
fault at the present time. " Please yourself; only mind, 
I have warned you not to ride her if you are afraid," 
said Cumberland. " A nice warning," replied I, turning' 
away ; — " wholl lend me a pair of spurs V " IVe got a pair 
here, Sir ; if you'll step this way 111 put them on for 
you," said the man, whom I had heard addressed as 
" James" — adding, in a lower tone, as he buckled them 
on, " for Heaven's sake, young gentleman, don't mount 
that mare, unless you're a first-rate rider." " Why, 
what's the matter with her 1 does she kick 1" inquired I. 
" She'll try and pitch you off, if possible, and if she 
can't do that, she'll bolt with you, and then the Lord 
have mercy upon you !" This was encouraging, certainly ! 
" You are an honest fellow, James," replied I ; " and I am 
much obliged to you. Bide her I must, my honour is at 
stake, but I'll be as careful as I can, and, if I come back 
safe you shall have half-a-crown." " Thank you, Sir," 
was the reply, " I shall be glad enough to see you come 
back, in any other way than on a shutter, without the 
money." Of a truth, the race of Job's comforters is not 
yet extinct, thought I, as I turned to look for Coleman, 
who had been up to this moment employed in superin- 
tending the saddling of Punch, and now made his ap- 
pearance, leading that renowned steed by the bridle. 
" Why, Fairlegh, you are not going to ride that vicious 
brute to be sure ; even Lawless won't mount her, and 
he does not mind what he rides in general." " Never 
mind about Lawless," said I, assuming an air of confi- 
dence I was very far from feeling ; "she won't eat me 
I dare say." " I don't know that," rejoined Coleman, 
regarding Mad Bess with a look of horror; "Cumberland, 
don't let him mount her." "Nay, I can't prevent it; 
Fairlegh is his own master, and can do ashelikes," was the 
answer. " Come, we can't keep the men standing here the 
whole day," said I to Coleman ; "get on to Punch, and out of 
my way, as fast as you can, if youaregoingtodo so at all" — 
a request with which, seeing I was quite determined, he 

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it length unwillingly complied, and haying; after one 
or two iailures, succeeded in getting his leg over the 
cob's broad back, he rode slowly ont of the yard, and 
took np his station outside, in order to witness my pro- 
ceedings. " Now, then," said I, " keep her as steady as 
yon can for a minute, and as soon as I am fairly mounted 
giro her her head — stand clear there." I then took a 
short run, and placing one hand on the saddle, while 
I seized a lock of the mane with the other, I sprang 
from the ground, and vaulted at once upon her back, 
without the aid of the stirrup, a feat I had learned from 
a groom who once lived with us, and which stood me in 
good stead on this occasion, as I thereby avoided a kick, 
with which Mad Bess greeted my approach. I next took 
up the reins as gently as I could, the man let go her 
head, and after a little dancing and capering, though 
much lees than I had expected, her ladyship gave up 
hostilities for the present, and allowed me to ride her 
quietly up and down the yard. I then wished Cum- 
berland, (who looked, as I thought, somewhat mortified,) 
a good afternoon, turned a deaf ear to the eulogies of 
Mr. Snaffles and his satellites, and proceeded to join 
Coleman. As I left the yard my Mend James joined 
me, under the pretence of arranging my stirrup leather, 
when he took the opportunity of saying— "She'll go 
pretty well now you're once mounted, sir, as long as you 
can hold her with the snaffle, but if you are obliged to 
use the curb — look out for squalls ! ! !" 


May IT.— Kogation &uirtra», (1846.) 

This is always the fifth after Easter, and the next 
before Whit Sunday, and so called from the Latin word 
rogare, to beseech ; because, on the succeeding Monday, 
Tuesday, and Wednesday, Rogations and Litanies were 
used, and fasting, or at least abstinence, enjoined by the 
Church, "for these reasons," says Bishop Sparrow: 
"L Because this time of the year, the fruits of the 
earth are tender and easily hurt ; therefore Litanies ex- 
traordinary are said to God, to avert this judgment. 
II. Because our Lord's Ascension is the Thursday fol- 
lowing. Therefore, these three days before are to be spent 
in prayers and fasting, that so, the flesh being tamed, 
and the soul winged with fasting, we may ascend with 

May 18, 19, 20.— Cbe Kogatfon Bas*, (1846.) 

The author of the " Popish Kingdom " thus describes 
the medieval manner of their observance in this country: 

"Now eomes the day wherein they gad abroad, with cross in 

lb bounds of every field, and round about their neighbour's land ; 
And as they go, they sing and pray to every saint above, 
But to oar Lady specially, whom most of all they love j 
When, as they to the town are come, the church they enter in, 
And look what saint that church doth guide, they humbly pray 

to him, 
Hat he preserve both corn and fruit from storm and tempest 

Aad them defend from harm, and send them store of drink and 

These things three days continually are done with solemn sport, 
Witk many crosses after they unto some church resort ; 
Whereas they all do chant alond, whereby there strait doth 

A bawling noise, while every man seeks highest for to sing." 

u The custom," says Strutt, " of marking the bounda- 
ries of parishes by the inhabitants going round them 
taee every year, and stopping at certain spots, to per- 

il) See the Homilies. 

form different ceremonies, in order that the localities 
might be impressed on the memories of both young and 
old, is of great antiquity. It is derived from the heathen 
feast, dedicated to the god Terminus, the guardian of 
the fields and landmarks. The priest of each parish, 
accompanied by his churchwardens and parishioners, 
bearing willow wands and banners, went round the 
limits of his parish on one of the three days before 
Holy Thursday, and stopped at remarkable spots and 
trees, to recite passages from the Gospels, and implore 
the blessing of the Almighty on the fruits of the earth, 
and for the preservation of the rights and properties of 
the parish. On these occasions, it was considered one 
of his chief duties to go to those of his flock whom he 
knew to be at variance, and, reconciling their differ- 
ences, make them march side by side in the procession.'* 
It is recorded of Sir Thomas More that he would often 
walk in the Rogation perambulations. Once, when one 
of these was to go to the confines of the parish, he was 
requested, " for his state and dignity, to ease himself 
with a horse." His reply betokened his profound hu- 
mility. He answered (alluding to the crucifix which 
was usually carried in front of these processions), " Qon 
forbid he should follow his Master prancing on cock- 
horse, when He went on foot." 

The "golden legend " says, that the bearing of ban- 
ners with the cross, on Rogation days, is to represent 
the victory of Christ in His resurrection and ascension : 
that the people followed the cross and the banners, as 
Chbjst was followed when He ascended to heaven 
with a great prey; and that in some churches, especially 
in France, it was the custom to bear a dragon, with a 
long tail, filled with chaff: the first two days it was 
borne before the cross, with the tail full ; but on the 
third day it was borne after the cross, with the tail 
empty ; by which it was understood, that on the first 
two days the devil reigned in the world, but that on 
the third he was dispossessed of his kingdom. 

The "parochial perambulations" in Rogation week, 
survived the Reformation. Elizabeth's "advertise- 
ments" direct, "That in the Rogation days of pro- 
cession, they sing or say, in English, the two psalms 
beginning, Betiedic anima mea, <fec, with the litany and 
suffrages thereunto, with one homily of thanksgiving to 
God, . . . without any superstitious ceremonies here- 
tofore used." Hooker, it is related, " would by no 
means omit the customary time of procession, per- 
suading all, both rich and poor, if they desired the 
preservation of love and their parish rights and liberties, 
to accompany him in his perambulation." The " di- 
vine" Herbert says of his "country parson," "Particu- 
larly he loves procession, and maintains it, because 
there are contained therein four manifest advantages, 
First, a blessing of God for the fruits of the field; 
secondly, justice, in the preservation of bounds ; thirdly, 
charity, in loving, walking, and neighbourly accom- 
panying one another ; with reconciling of differences at 
that time, if there be any ; fourthly, mercy, in relieving 
the poor, by a liberal distribution and largess, which at 
that time is, or ought to be, used." 

This custom was particularly distasteful to the Pu- 
ritans, one of whom, in 1572, among " Popish abuses," 
places " the gang week, when the priest in his surplice, 
singing gospels and making crosses, rangeth about in 
many places." Notwithstanding this, the practice re- 
tained ite ground in many places, till a recent period, and, 
we believe, is not even yet entirely discontinued. A writer, 
in 1790, observes, " Some time in the spring, I think the 
day before Holy Thursday, all the clergy of Ripon, 
attended by the singing men and boys of the choir, 
perambulate the town in their canonicals, singing 
hymns ; and the blue-coat charity boys follow, singing, 
with green boughs in their hands." The historian of 
Staffordshire, speaking of Wolverhampton, says, " Many 
of the older inhabitants can well remember when the 
sacrist, resident prebendaries, and members of the 
choir assembled at morning prayers, on Monday and 

— ===== 

Digitized Dy 



Tuesday in Rogation week, with the charity children 
bearing long poles, clothed with all kinds of flowers 
then in season, and which were afterwards carried 
through the streets of the town with much solemnity ; 
the clergy, singing men, and boys, dressed, in their 
sacred vestments, closing the procession, and chanting, 
in a grave and appropriate melody, the Canticle, *Be- 
nedicite omnia opera* &c. This usage was relinquished 
about 1765. In the skirts of the town are ranged, at 
determinate distances, a number of large trees, which 
serve to mark the limits between the township and the 
parish. These are denominated by the inhabitants 
gospel trees, from the practice of reading the gospel 
under them, when the clergy were wont to perambulate 
the boundaries." Plott, in his history of Oxfordshire, 
tells us that at Stanlake, in that county, the minister of 
the parish, in his procession in Rogation week, reads the 
gospel at a barrel's head, in the cellar of the Chequer 
Inn, in that town, where some say there was formerly a 
hermitage, others a cross, at which they read a gospel in 
former times. " At Oxford," says Brand, " at this 
time, the little crosses cut in the stones of buildings, to 
denote the division of the parishes, are whitened with 
chalk. Great numbers of boys, with peeled willow-rods 
in their hands, accompany the minister in the pro- 

The village Rogation processions in other lands 
afford a remarkable instance of the innocent hilarities 
so closely connected with the Christian holidays. " The 
bells of the village church strike up," says Chateau- 
briand, " and the rustics immediately quit their various 
employments. The vine dresser descends the hill, the 
husbandman hastens from the plain, the woodcutter 
leaves the forest ; the mothers, sallying from their huts, 
arrive with their children; and the young maidens 
relinquish their spinning-wheels, their sheep, and the 
fountains, to attend the rural festival They assemble 
in the parish church-yard, on the verdant graves of 
their forefathers. The only ecclesiastic who is to take 
part in the ceremony soon appears. ... He assembles 
his flock before the principal entrance of the church ; 
he delivers a discourse, which must certainly be very 
impressive, to judge from the tears of his audience. He 
frequently repeats the words, My children ! my dearly 
beloved children I And herein consists the whole secret 
of the eloquence of this rustic Chrysostom. 

"The exhortation ended, the assembly begins to 
move off, singing, ' Ye shall go forth with pleasure, and 
ye shall be received with joy; the hills shall leap, and 
shall hear you with delight.' 

" The standard of the saints, the antique banner of 
the days of chivalry, opens the procession ; the villagers 
follow their pastor. They pursue their course through 
lanes, overshadowed with trees, and deeply cut by the 
wheels of the rustic vehicles j they climb over high bar- 
riers, formed by a single trunk of a tree ; they proceed 
along a hedge of hawthorn, where the bee hums, where 
the bullfinch and the blackbird whistle. The budding 
trees display the promise of their fruit ; all nature is a 
nosegay of flowers. The woods, the valleys, the rivers, 
the rocks, hear, in their turns, the hymns of the hus- 
bandmen, in their course through the plains, enamelled 
by the hand of their Creator. ... To finish well a day 
so piously began, the old men of the village repair at 
night to converse with their pastor. The moon then 
sheds her last beams on their festival, which the Church 
has made to correspond with the return of the most 
pleasant of the months, and the course of the most mys- 
terious of the constellations. Amid the silence of the 
woods arise unknown voices, as from the choir of rural 
angels, whose succour has. been implored; and the 
plaintive and sweet notes of the nightingale salute the 
ears of the veterans, seated in friendly converse beneath 
the lofty poplars." 

One or two old English customs observed in Rogation 
week, but unconnected with its peculiar usages, remain 
to be described. Hasted relates that at this season, at 

Keston and Wickham, Kent, "a number of young men 
meet together, and with a ' most hideous noise/ run into 
the orchards, and, encircling each tree, pronounce these 

" ' Stand fast root, bear well top ; 
God send us a voiding sop, 
Every twig apple big, 
Every bough apple enow.' * 

For which incantation the ' confused rabble ' expect a 
gratuity in money, or drink, which is no less welcome ; 
but if they are disappointed of both, they, with great 
solemnity, anathematize the owners and trees, with 
* altogether as insignificant a curse/ " This custom is 
called youling, and probably had a pagan origin. 

Hutchins tells us "that the inhabitants of Shaftesbury 
have from time immemorial been supplied with water 
brought on horses' backs, or on people's heads, from 
three or four large wells, a quarter of a mile below the 
town, in the hamlet of Motcombe, and parish of Gil- 
lingham, on which account there is this particular 
ceremonial yearly observed by ancient agreement, dated 
1662, between the lord of the manor of Gillingham, and 
the mayor and burgesses of Shaftesbury. The mayor is 
obliged on the Monday before Holy Thursday, to dress 
up a prize besom, or byzant, as they call it, somewhat 
like a May garland in form, with gold and peacock's 
feathers, and carry it to Enmore Green, half a mile below 
the town, in Motcombe, as an acknowledgment for the 
water ; together with a raw calf s head, a pair of gloves, 
a gallon of beer, or ale, and two penny loaves of white 
wheaten bread, which the steward receives and carries 
away for his own use. The ceremony being over, the 
byzant is restored to the mayor, and brought back by 
one of his officere with great solemnity. It is generally 
so richly adorned with plate and jewels, borrowed from 
the neighbouring gentry, as to be worth not less than 

May %let, 1846.— ftolfi Clur»o*8, o* Ofcenffoii Bog. 

This is one of the four most ancient festivals of the 
Church, and has always been regarded of apostolic 
institution. St. Augustine says, that it was celebrated 
throughout the whole world. Though with extraordinary 
pomp observed on the Mount of Olives, its solemn 
celebration was universal in the middle ages. 


A contributor to the Gentleman's Magazine, for 1787, 
states, " It is the custom in many villages in the neigh- 
bourhood of Exeter, to ' hail the lamb * upon ascension 
morn. That the figure of a lamb actually appears in 
the east upon this morning, is the popular persuasion." 
The following superstitions relating to this day are found 
in Scott's " Discovery of Witchcraft" " In some coun- 
tries," he remarks, " they run out of the doors in time of 
tempest, blessing themselves with a cheese, whereupon 
was a cross made with a rope's end upon Ascension 
Day." — "Item, to hang an egg laid on Ascension 
Day in the roof of the house, preserveth die same 
from all hurts." On Holy Thursday "it is a 
common custom," says Hone, " of established usage, 
for the minister of each parish, followed by the 
boys of the parish school, headed by their master, 
to go in procession to the different parish boundaries ; 
which boundaries the boys strike with peeled willow 
wands that they bear in their hands, and this is called 
beating the bounds.' " A sorry substitute for the old 
Rogation perambulations, and often attended by gross 
improprieties. Bumping persons to make them remem- 
ber the parochial limits, is not unfrequently practised 
on these occasions. A few years since, an angler, in the 
Lea, was thus maltreated by the parishioners of Wal- 
thamstow, and obtained 501. damages for the assault. 
Brand states, that on this festival, the magistrates, 
river-jury, &c, of the corporation of Newcastle-upon- 
Tyne, according to an ancient usage, make their annual 
procession by water, in their barges, visiting the bounds 

Digitized by UUW VC 




of their jurisdiction on the river, to prevent encroach- 


In the afternoon of this day, before the Reforma- 
tion, our ancestors assembled in the Churches, when, 
according to Barnaby Googe, a representation of our 
Saviour was, in some places, drawn up to the roof, and 
a frightful image of Satan thrown down, upon which all 
the boys surrounded it, and " beat it into pieces small, to 
show their enmity." Then the Service proceeded, every 
versicle and every prayer concluding with the joyful 
Alleluia, and then, with the antiphon praying the pro- 
mised gift of the Paraclete, " singing cakes " and uncon- 
secrated wafers were distributed among the people, and 
the Office concluded. At Durham Abbey, they had a 
general procession, in which every monk wore a gorgeous 
cope, and the prior a " marvellous one " of cloth of gold, 
which was so heavy as to require support on every side. 
He held his pastoral staff and wore a precious mitre. St. 
Bede's shrine was carried by four monks on their 
shoulders. Other " holy relics" were borne in the pro- 
cession, which was headed by St. Cuthberts sacred 
banner, and two crosses, one of " silver parcel gilt," and 
the other, " all of gold." 

It was formerly a practice at Lichfield on Ascension 
day, for the clergyman of the parish, accompanied by the 
church-wardens and sides-men, and followed by a con- 
course of children, bearing green boughs, to repair to 
the several reservoirs of water, and here read the gospel 
for the day, after which they were regaled with cakes 
and ale. During the ceremony the door of every house 
was decorated with an elm bough. This custom was 
founded on one of the early institutions of Christianity, 
that of blessing the wells and springs. An ancient and 
somewhat similar observance still prevails on Holy 
Thursday, in the village of Tissington, Derbyshire, 
which not only claims a high antiquity, but is one of the 
few country ffctes which are kept up with anything like 
the ancient spirit It is called well-flowering. The fol- 
lowing is an " exact account" of the circumstances atten- 
dant on this annual festival on the 8th of May, 1823. 
There are five wells, and the method of decorating them is 
this : the flowers are inserted in moist clay, and put 
upon boards cut in various forms, surrounded with 
boughs of laurel or white-thorn, so as to give an appear- 
ance of water issuing from small grottoes. The flowers 
are adjusted and arranged in various patterns to give 
the effect of mosaic work, having inscribed upon them 
texts of scripture, appropriate to the season, and 
sentences expressive of the kindness of the Duty. 
They vary each year, and as the wells are dressed by 
persons contiguous to the springs, so their ideas vary. 
A sermon was preached on the above occasion, from 
1 Peter iii. 22. From the church the congregation 
walked in procession to the first, or the Hall well; 
so called from being opposite to the house of the ancient 
family of Piteherbert. Here was read by the clergy- 
man the first Psalm for the day, and another sung by 
the parish choir. As there is a recess at the back of the 
well, and an elevated wall, a great profusion of laurel- 
branches were placed upon it, interspersed with daffodils, 
Chinese roses, and marsh-marygolds. Over the spring 
was a square board, surmounted with a crown, composed 
of white and red daisies. The board, being covered 
with moss, had written upon it in red daisies, " While 
He blessed them He was carried up into heaven." The 
second, or Hand's well, was also surmounted with laurel- 
branches, and had a canopy, with, "The Lord's unsparing 
* supports us from this spring." The letters were 
* with the bud of the larch, and between the lines 
two rows of purple primroses and marsh-marygolds. 
hi the centre above the spring, on a moss ground, in let- 
ters of white daisies, " Sons of earth, the triumph join." 
B e neat h, was formed in auriculas " G. R." The second 
fWm for the day was read here. The third, or Prith's 
*dl, was greatly admired, as it was situated in Mr. 
FrUh's garden, and the shrubs around it were numerous. 

Here were formed two arches, one within the other. 
The first had a ground of white hyacinths, and purple 
primroses, edged with white, on which was inscribed in 
red daisies, " Ascension." The receding arch was covered 
with various flowers, and in the centre on a ground of 
marsh-marygolds edged with white hyacinths, in red 
daisies, " Peace be unto you." Here was read the third 
Psalm for the day. The fourth, or Holland's well, was 
thickly surrounded with branches of white-thorn placed 
in the earth. The well springs from a small coppice of 
firs and thorns. The form of the erection over it was a 
circular arch, and in the centre, on a ground of marsh- 
marygolds edged with purple primroses, in red daisies, 
these words, " In God is all." At this well was read the 
Epistle. The fifth, or Miss Goodwin's well, was sur- 
rounded with brancbesof evergreens, having, on a pointed 
arch, covered with mareh-marygolds, daffodils, and wild 
hyacinths, "He did no sin/' in red daisies. On the 
summit of the arch was placed a crown of laurel, over 
which was a cross of white daisies, edged with wild 
hyacinths ; on the transverse piece of the cross, " I. H.S." 
was placed in red daisies. At this well was read the 
Gospel. The day concluded by the visitors partaking 
of the hospitality of the inhabitants, and being gratified 
with a well-arranged band, playing appropriate pieces 
of music at each other's houses. 


[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, i» 
printed in Small Capitals under the title ; in Selections, it is 
printed in Italics at the end.] 


Sheltered well by friendly mountains, 
Wash'd by clear and cooling fountains, 
In a nook so still and green, 
Lovelier hamlet ne'er was seen. 

Overhead, on ridges high, 
Old dark pins-trees hide the sky ; 
Down below, the stream flows near, 
And the air is mild and clear. 

House and yard swarm all day long 
With a busy bustling throng ; 
Ever as the day comes round, 
Rings the anvil's restless sound. 

And the bright sparks dart and quiver, 
And the steely splinters shiver, 
And the flood, with thunder-sound, 
Flings the ponderous mill-wheel round. 

Earthly cares shall not molest, 
In this vale, my peaceful breast ; 
Joy within my heart shall dwell, 
As a pure, untroubled well. 

Shaded by the whispering tress, 
Will I woo the dreamy breese ; 
Mountain, vale, and murmuring rill, 
With deep peace my heart shall fill. 


(1) See Illustration, p. 33. 

D i y i l i zud by 




lllustralinff ike development of poetical talent m a working man. 

i H. P. LOTT. 


Or Poetry, out simple ballad lore 

Long form T d njv onlv library, till the page 

Of unsurpasaed Shakspeare did engage 

Mine eye T if' ■! -■ i ths of treasure to explore : 

lily Earouiztei were, the much beguiled Moor, 

And tile frir i i.-iim of his jealous rage, — 

Borneo in 1 1 J diet ; and upon the stage 

Of martial heroes, him of Agincour. 

But much of what was nature seem'd uncouth, 

Far ta my folded faculties could see, 

And MY A to strike my inexperienced youth 

Either with sweetness or sublimity; 

Till by degren its beauty and its truth 

Won, and stilJ wins, my deep idolatry. 


Next Burns'* light upon me shone, and smiled 

In manly sentiment and lovinff song ; 

And o T or hi* Ivrics I delighted hung, 

When woman' 4 beauty first my heart beguiled. 

Eliza 1 Thou rememberest how wild 

My transports were, how tender, deep, and strong 

The love that Imrn'd within me, and how long 

Fasaiun and peace remain' d unreconciled. 

His proud unbent integrity of mind, 

His wit and aatire spurning erery rein, 

H in worship and his love of womankind, 

The trouble* that he struggled with in vain, 

rUimM nil my sympathy ; and deep enshrin'd 

lu memory's temple his most touching strain. 

Aim then the paintings of The Seasons led 

My soul to contemplation, and I stood 

In open landscape, and cmboVrinff wood, 

Enchanted with the wonders round me spread : 

Imbibing sentient from all I read, 

And making on it, I became embued 

Wild flense of all the beautiful and good, 

That heaven on earth so bountifully nad shed. 

The flowers grew lovelier, sweeter; birds and streams 

Warbled and marmnr'd softer in mine ear • 

The xuuroiaij? * radiance — evening's glowing beams, 

Tbe tuiccfut winds, the moon, each glittering sphere, 

Woke in my mind enthusiastic dreams, 

Which Fancy idealizing, rendered dear. 

CriAttM'D was I now by rich melodious Pope : 

By Mentor Oiwjier pointed to the right ; 

And wolh'd or lifted up by Henry White. 

Then saw the portals of the heavens ope, 

Tim i iikIi Mil (on r s genius, which alone could cope 

With so sublime a theme ; and heard Young slight 

The selfish world, in which he took delight ; 

And wejit for \ery joy o'er Campbell's Hope ! 

And BIoomMdV watching spirit pleas'd has been 

To ace me lie npon the daisied grass, 

!■' i 'i ■■>'•:■ .: I saw Ms faithful painted scene 

Reflected round me, as if in a glass: 

And Butler's shade, too, might nave heard, I ween, 

Ms laughter o'er his matchless Hudibras. 

Fisaixt t Byron warm'd me with his fire, 
And in a magic spell my feelings held, 
Till the strong impulse could no more be quell'd, 
And artlessly and low I woke my lyre, 
Where few could hear its breathings ; or the mire 
Of deep ohtf-urity its efforts hid, 
Or cool indifference every hope forbid, 
Further to mount to where it would aspire. 
Since then, some humble channels opening round, 
Invite a simple hard like me to sena 
ilis bubbles on the sea, to float or drown, 
As critics mav destroy them or befriend ; 
And should these meet the last, then have I found, 
The effort well rewarded by the end. 

Yet, some may deem my numbers sounding shells 

That merely echo back another's thought, 

Into a different tone of language wrought 

As memory moveth, or as passion swells : 

Bnt if I be no poet, deeply dwells 

The love of song within me — ever fraught 

With an intense delight, when I have sought 

Those springs where its pure spirit most out-wells, 

And drunk, vet was not minded by the charm, 

So as to lead my youthful mind astray, 

Nor for my daily toil unfit my arm ; 

But so has drawn me from the evil way 

That even those around me could but say — 

" How it expands his heart and keeps it warm." 


" I have here made only a> nosegay of culled flowers, and 
have/brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties 
them."— Montatgn*. 


Db. Frakklui once received a very useful lesson 
from Dr. Cotton Mather, which he thus relates, in a 
letter to his son. " The last time I saw your father 
was in 1724. On taking my leave, he showed me a 
a shorter way out of the house, by a narrow passage 
which was crossed by a beam over-head. We were still 
talking, as I withdrew, he accompanying me behind, 
and I turning towards him, when he said hastily, 
" Stoop ! Stoop 1" I did not understand him till I felt 
my head hit against the beam. He was a man who 
never missed an opportunity of giving instruction ; and 
upon this, he said to me, " You are young, and have the 
world before you, learn to stoop as you go through it, 
and you will miss many hard thumps." This advice 
thus beat into my head, has frequently been of use to 
me ; and I often think, when I see pride mortified, and 
misfortunes brought on people by their carrying their 
heads too high. 

This too is a very principal point to attend to— know- 
ledge how to converse: to interrogate without over- 
earnestness ; to answer without desire of display : not 
to interrupt a profitable speaker, or to desire ambitiously 
to put in a word of one's own : to be measured in speak- 
ing and hearing : not to be ashamed of receiving, or to be 
grudging in giving, information, nor to pass another's 
knowledge for one's own. The middle tone of voice is 
best, neither bo low as to be inaudible, nor ill-bred from 
its high pitch. One should reflect first what one is 
going to say, and then give it utterance : be courteous 
when addressed, amiable in social intercourse: not 
aiming to be pleasant by facetiousness, but cultivating- 
gentleness in kind admonitions. Harshness is ever to 
be put aside/even in censuring. — Church of the Fathers. 

Thosi who most doubt friendship, are precisely those 
the least calculated to excite or feel it. 



Self-Cultivation 33 

Natural History of Birds, 

No. 1 36 

The Holy City, (Second 

Notice) 39 

Frank Fair lech; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 

Pupil, Chap. IV 41 

Popular Year-Book, (May 

17—21)...... 45 

The Village Smithy, (with 

Illustration) 47 

Sonnets *i» 48 


Importanceof Humility — 
To know how to Converse 
—Friendship 44 

London:— Published by T.B. Shaepe, 15, Skinner Street,Snoir -bill. 
Printed by R. Clay, Bread 8treet Hill. 

Digitized by CjOOgLe 



Pontoon #taga?fne: 


No. 80.] 

MAY 23, 1846. 

Pkich lid. 

®&e ©to aSBater-cre** JlWan. 

\See page 62.) 

(first article.) 

It lias long been evident to every one who has 
surveyed the map of Hindostan with an attentive 
eye, or known anything of the history of that vast 
country, that the district called the Punjaub must, 
sooner or later, be placed under the control of the 
British government. And this for several reasons, 
amongst the most cogent of which were the pro- 
tection from attack of the territories on the left 
bank of the Sutlej, which have for some time past 
sought and received our guardianship ; the intro- 
duction of peace and civilization amongst tribes of 
people living in a state of confusion and barbarism ; 
and the consolidation of our own empire within a 
well defined northern frontier. The expediency of 

' extending a mild but strong rufc to that pro- 
se, of replacing anarchy by regulation, and dis- 
tention by tranquillity, has been long felt, and the 

accomplishment of the desirable end was foreseeu 
to be not far distant. Any doubts as to the abso- 
lute necessity of our interference have at length 
been swept away by a hostile incursion on the 
part of the inhabitants of the Punjaub, and we 
shall in all probability hear in a short time of the 
addition of another kingdom to the power and 
wealth of the British dominion in the East. 1 
Meanwhile it may be interesting to our readers to 
have a succinct account of the country, and of the 
people dwelling there ; and this we propose to give 
them in these papers, in the preparation of which 
we have carefully consulted the latest and best 

For a great number of years, indeed from the 
commencement of authentic history, up to a very 
recent period, the Punjaub territory had no inde- 
pendent government of its own. The earliest 

(1) The opinion here expressed will be understood to be that of 
the writer of this pat-er onlv. We view the matter differently, and 
sincerely rejoice in the prospect that hi* anticipations will not be 
realized.— Editor. 

Digitized by V^iOOQlC 



account we have of it i§ derived from a Hindu 
volume, which denounces the inhabitants as an 
impure race, because they ate bee£ drank arrack, 
and paid no attention to caste. Their name, 
Bahikas, was derived from two demons who 
dwelt upon the banks of one of the rivers. It 
was always a mere province of some vaster 
empire. Towards the end of the fifteenth century, 
it was an appanage of the Mogul dynasty, and, 
whilst the emperor lay lapt in luxury at Delhi, a 
viceroy was stationed at Lahore to defend his 
sovereign's dominions on the north and west. This 
dynasty was established by Baber, a warlike 
Turcoman prince, who advanced upon Delhi about 
1527, and dethroned the Afghan then seated on the 
throne of northern Hindostan. It is a strange 
misnomer that has crept into history, to style 
Baber and his successors Moguls, that is Mongols, 
for the feet is they were not Mongols, but princes 
of a Turki tribe. The mistake originated from Baber 
having many Mongols in his train when he effected 
his conquests, and from his being the lucceisor of 
Timur, " the Axis of the Faith, the great Wolf, the 
Master of Time," (better known to ui under the 
name of Tamerlane) who succeeded in uniting the 
fragments of the old Mongol empire of Oengis 
Khan. The religion of the Moguls was Mohame- 
dan, but a great number of their subjects were 
Hindoo's. In the year 1469 there was born near 
Lahore a man called Nanac 8hab, He was a 
Hindoo of the warrior cagte, and, even in his child- 
hood, his mind had a strong religious tendency, 
exhibiting itself in an indifference to worldly 
pursuits, and in acts of charity : at least so the 
writers of the sect he founded assert; and the v cite 
instances of miraculous interposition as additional 
proofs of his sanctity. For instance, as he was 
tending cattle one day in the fields, he fell asleep 
under a tree, and he continued in slumber until the 
shade which had protected him from the sun's influ- 
ence had moved away, and the solar rays fell upon 
him. But the Ruler of the world intended him for 
great things, and, in order to prevent the fatal 
effects that might have ensued from the youth's 
exposure to a hot sun, a snake moved out of an 
adjoining bush, and, raising itself on its tail, spread 
its hood over Nanac like a screen until the set of 
day. The governor of the district happened to 
pass by as the snake was thus employed, and 
marked with attention this augury of future great- 
ness, as unequivocal and certain as that of the 
eagle in the sight of a Roman Aruspex. Nanac 
became a Fakir, and practised all kinds of austerities, 
after the approved fanatic fashion. He performed 
pilgrimages not only to the holy places of the 
Hindoos, but to those of the Mohamedans like- 
wise, and in his travels he preached his own 
doctrines respecting the unity and omnipresence 
of the Supreme Being, endeavouring to reconcile 
the conflicting creeds of Brahma and Mohamed by 
enforcing attention to the one point whereon they 
theoretically agreed. He sought to impress upon 
his hearers a regard for purity of life, and peace 
with all men. He boldly condemned the propaga- 
tion of any form of belief by means of the sword, 
and thereby excited the hatred of the Mohame- 
dans. " I am sent," he declared, " from heaven to 
publish unto mankind a book, which shall reduce 
_all the names given unto God to one name, which 
is^Qod, and he who calls him by any other shall 
fall into the path of the devil, and have his feet 

bound in the chain of wretchedness," * Again he 
said: "Without the practice ef true piety, both 
Hindoos and Moslems are in error, and neither 
will be acceptable before the throne of God; for . 
the faded tinge of scarlet that has been soiled by 
water will never return. Reading is useless without 
obedience to the doctrine taught, for God has said, 
no man shall be saved except he has performed 
good works. The Almighty will not ask to what 
tribe or persuasion he belongs : He will only ask 
what he nas done." High and low, perceiving he 
was in earnest, listened to him with attention, and 
he was even permitted to expound his tenets before 
the emperor Baber. During the progress of his 
pretended apostolical mission, he was assailed with 
fierce threats as well as bland temptations ; never- 
theless he remained immovable. A Rajah offered 
him all the luxuries of the world if he would 
abandon his object; but rich meats, splendid 
clothing, and fair women, were appropriate texts 
upon which Nanac could enlarge, and he contrasted 
the purity of his doctrines with the vain, sinful 
practices of the world, in words of such eloquence 
and force, thai the Rajah himself was converted to 
the new with. At another time, when he visited 
the country of the Yogis-waras, (recluses, who by 
means of penances were believed to have obtained 
command over the powers of nature,) all the means 
they possessed were employed to terrify him from 
his course. Dire enchantments appeared before 
him under the terrible shapes of lions, tigers, and 
snakes j showers of fire fell from heaven, and the 
stars were torn down from the firmament. He 
died at Kirtipoor, on the Ravee, and was buried 
on the banks of that river. The waters of the 
stream now run over the place of his interment, 
but Kirtipoor, where he performed many miracles, 
is resorted to by devotees to this day, and a frag- 
ment of his garment is the only tangible memorial 
of the departed Nanac that his pious followers can 
exhibit in proof that he once lived. There is, to be 
sure, a treatise of his writing called Granth, (mean- 
ing the Book,) but that is consulted as little as may 
be, for the doctrines it teaches differ to an uncom- 
fortable extent from the present practices of the 
Seiks, the name adopted by the followers of Nanac, 
derived from a Sanscrit word, signifying disciple. 
Though a great part of Asia was visited by Nanac, 
his system seems only to have taken lasting root 
in the district where he was born. Whilst he 
lived he was looked upon as spiritual head of his 
sect, and he was followed by nine persons who 
successively assumed the name of Gooroo (that is, 
spiritual instructor), all of whom supported their 
position by affecting superior sanctity, and per- 
forming pretended miracles. Several of these 
leaders made additions to, er modified, the esta- 
blished creed, and there are in consequence many 
sects in the Seik church. We need not trace the 
history of the Gooroos, or of the alterations they 
introduced; but it is proper to mention that the 
most important of these alterations was made by 
Govind, the tenth Gooroo, who repudiated the 
quietism of Nanac, and put a sword into the hands 
of his adherents, changing their name from Seik to 
Singh, or lion. In order to distinguish his followers 
from their neighbours, he commanded them to 
allow their hair and beard to grow, and to attire 
themselves in blue garments. To swell their 
number he abolished the invidious distinction of 
caste, permitting all classes to enrol themselves 

^ig l t l ^edby K^ 

i J 



Seiks who chose to abandon their previous belief. 
The eating of flesh, except that of kine, was no 
longer forbidden, and hence pork, which is an 
abomination to the Mohamedans, is freely con- 
sumed by the Seiks. Govind wrote another 
Oranthy which does not exclusively relate to reli- 
gions subjects, for there are in it many narrations 
of its author's warlike achievements, and he traces 
the descent of his own tribe and the progress of his 
own life. 

The religion founded by Nanac professed to com- 
bine the leading axioms and excellent points both 
of the institutes of Hindooism, and the laws of 
Mobamed. Yet we may perceive even in the 
beginning, that its leaning was towards the ancient 
faith of Hindostan, and the corruptions that in 
progress of time crept in were strongly tinged by 
the superstitions wnich surrounded the antique 
gods, Thus the cow, which is an object of rever- 
ence wherever the religion of Brahma and his 
fellow deities prevails, is worshipped by the Seiks. 
The great body of Hindoo mythological fiction is 
adopted, the efficacy of penance is insisted on, the 
holy books of Brahrainism are consulted, the great 
festivals of the Hindoos observed, and their saered 
shrines attended. This sympathy with the Hin- 
doos was partly the cause, and partly the effect, of 
the persecutions the Seiks had to endure from the 
Mohamedans, persecutions which, in the end, 
rendered necessary some kind of defensive organi- 
zation. The result of Govind's rule was to convert 
the whole body of his followers into a tribe of 
armed warriors. The struggles they made for mere 
existence tested their strength, and showed the 
weakness of their adversaries, so that, after a time, 
they found themselves in a position to take 
possession of the Punjaub country. But to give a 
dear explanation of the history of the Seiks, it will 
be necessary to go back a little, and state the cir- 
cumstances of the surrounding countries. 

The Mogul empire, founded by Baber, attained 
to the zenith of its prosperity under Aurungzebe. 
At that monarch's death, which took place in 1707, 
a series of princes sat in the musnud who were 
incapable of withstanding attacks from without, or 
of resisting treason within the limits of their vast 
dominions. In the short space of thirteen years 
after Aurungzebe had been gathered to his fathers, 
four different kings ruled northern Hindostan, and 
then, Mohamed Shah was proclaimed supreme head. 
He was a pusillanimous monarch, given up to 
sensual pleasures, and destitute of any skill in the 
art of governing. Ever ready to purchase peace, 
he found that the money expended in this base 
purpose drained his coffers, without ensuring the 
quiet he sought One-fourth of his revenues had 
been alienated in this way when Nadir Shah made 
his appearance, and inflicted a blow from which 
the empire never recovered. Nadir was a soldier 
of fortune, who had raised himself from a subordi- 
aate situation to the throne of Persia. His father 
was the chief of the tribe of the Giljees, seated in 
tkat part of Afghanistan which is close adjoining 
■pan the Punjaub. Afghanistan at that period 
hekmged to Persia. After having given incon- 
testable prooft of his valour, his services were 
nraged by the Persian monarch, and, when the 
Aqfhan tribes arose in rebellion and audaciously 
mtered the Shah's kingdom, he was employed 
gainst them and expelled them with great 
ftpghter. Troubles in other quarters threatened 

the very being of the Persian kingdom, which the 
Shah, an effeminate person, was unable to ward 
off, and had not Nadir given his whole strength to 
its support, the throne would have tottered into 
the dust Nadir had the policy to conceal his 
ambitious views for a time, but a convenient oppor- 
tunity occurring, he procured himself to be elected 
king. This event did not stop him from indulging 
his bent for war, and, immediately after his corona- 
tion, he marched against the rebellious Afghans, 
whom he reduced to obedience. Whilst still in 
Afghanistan, reports of the weakness and the 
wealth of the Delhi monarch reached him, nor was 
he long before he found a pretence for indulging 
his love of conquest by an attack upon the country 
south of the Indus. Some Afghans had fled for 
protection into the Mogul empire, and Nadir de- 
manded that they should be given up to him. No 
attention was paid by the proud Mogul to the 
demand, and Nadir at once determined to march 
his troops into his country. A battle was fought, 
in which the Indian troops were irretrievably 
routed, and Mahomed Shah voluntarily threw 
himself upon the mercy of the conqueror. They 
proceeded together to Delhi, Nadir ostensibly as 
the guest of Mahomed ; and the sums claimed by 
the Persians were only under the name of indem- 
nification for the expenses of the war. The in- 
habitants of Delhi were in the depths of despair at 
the enormous amount of the levies, and a false 
report of Nadir's death having been circulated, they 
rose in arms and attacked the Persian soldiers. 
No explanation would satisfy Nadir ; he saw at a 
glance his precarious situation, and in order to 
strike such a terror as would paralyze them for the 
future, he ordered a general massacre, in which, 
though it continued only from sunrise till noon, an 
immense number of persons was slaughtered. The 
plunder that Nadir extorted was enormous, and when 
ne returned to Persia it is calculated that he carried 
with him somewhere between thirty and seventy 
millions sterling. Nadir afterwards exhibited such 
cruelty in his own kingdom, that madness alone 
can account for his conduct, and his death became 
a matter of absolute necessity, Ahmed Khan, one 
of Nadir's officers, and chief of an Afghan tribe, 
took advantage of the crisis to found the kingdom 
of Afghanistan, by making himself master ^ of 
Kandahar, and assuming the title of king. Like 
Nadir, Ahmed perceived that the best method of 
keeping his title unquestioned, was to employ his 
people in predatory wars, and his first impulse was 
to march upon Delhi ; for the recollection of the 
impotence of the Mogul had not faded from his 
memory, since he had visited that capital in the train 
of the fate Shah. He was, however, so vigorously 
opposed by the viceroy of the Punjaub, that he 
determined upon a retreat, reserving the full force 
of hit attack for a more convenient season. 
Ahmed's next invasion (1751) was attended with 
greater success. The viceroy sustained a defeat 
near his capital, and tendered his submission. 
Ahmed continued his government, however, but it 
was as his own viceroy. During the troubles that 
besieged the unfortunate Punjaub, the Seiks had 
rendered themselves a formidable body; and 
although measures were taken to suppress them, 
they increased in numbers and strength. Ahmed 
had no longer much to fear from the Mogul 
emperor, but the Mahrattas now made their 
appearance, and the viceroy fled at their approach. 

nigitiypHhyV fQQ — 



Ahmed took the field in person, and the great 
battle of Paniput was fought in 1761, in which the 
new invaders were utterly routed. After this 
" wild Mahratta battle," the Seiks securing them- 
selves in several strongholds began to make head 
against the Afghans, and although they were 
repeatedly punished, they succeeded at last in 
establishing themselves masters of the Punjaub. 

The relation of the Seiks to each other seems, at 
this time, to be as nearly that of the feudal warriors 
of Europe as we can well conceive. The chiefs were 
numerous, and they acknowledged no supreme head, 
but were linked together for mutual benefit. A 
chain of mutual dependence bound together the sub- 
ordinate officers with those above them, and the lies 
of kinship and clanship had as much to do in keep- 
ing the bodies united, as the hopes of reward. In 
fact, the members of the Seik association considered 
themselves partners in their enterprises, but it was 
necessary, to ensure success, that some should lead 
and some should follow. The chiefs, of whom there 
were twelve, took the name of Misuls, and of these 
Chooroot Singh was amongst the most powerful. 
Of course, in such a state of society, there were many 
temptations and opportunities for an enterprising 
warrior to distinguish himself. It is true that a 
sort of council was constituted called Gooroo Matta, 
by which a federative form was nominally given to 
the Seik commonwealth, but intrigues prevailed to 
such an extent amongst the Misuls, that it was vir- 
tually inoperative. Maha Singh, Chooroot's son, 
was of a bold, energetic disposition, and the bravery 
he exhibited on divers occasions attached several 
independent Sirdars to him, and ingratiated him so 
much with the people that none of his fellow chiefs 
could rival his influence. Having thus obtained the 
ascendency, he was wise enough to use his power 
for the good of his country ; and it is said that a 
period of repose and tranquillity was the conse- 
quence, to which the Punjaub had long been a 
stranger. Maha Singh died at the age of twenty- 
seven, and his only son, Runjeet, was but twelve 
years old when his father's early death took place. 
At that age it was not to be expected that he 
would have either capacity in himself, or the per- 
mission of his ciders, to undertake the management 
of affairs ; but when he arrived at the termination 
of his sixteenth year, he dissolved the body that 
had governed during his minority, and assumed his 
father's seat. In the meantime Shah Zemaun, who 
was then chief of the Afghanistan country, had 
crossed the Indus, and invaded the Punjaub. He 
repeated his attack soon after Runjeet had taken 
upon himself the conduct of affairs, but, as he found 
he could not permanently occupy the country, he 
retreated once more. Runjeet rendered the Shah 
some services, and he solicited, in return, a grant 
of Lahore, which he readily obtained. From the 
time of his taking possession of that city, Runjeet 
may be considered as having founded the kingdom, 
to which he was continually adding for some years. 
We reserve, however, an account of his proceedings 
*'"Ynother paper. 


(Continued from page 21 J 

History, next to poetry, was Schiller's favourite em- 
ployment ; and he now occupied himself in an eminently 
congenial work, and that on which his reputation, as a 
prose writer, is chiefiy founded ; — The History of the 
Thirty Years' War. This work appeared in Gbschens 
Historical Almanack. This passage of history, from its 
poetical character, had always a peculiar charm for I 
Schiller ; and various were his poetical projects in con- I 
nexion with it They resulted at length in the noblest 
productions of his pen, the two tragedies on the subject j 
of Wallenstein. It is remarkable that, during this latter ' 
task, he had much 1 chs confidence in his poetic powers, 
criticized his former writings with severity, and acknow- 
ledged that he had become a new man in poetry. The ! 
truth was, his taste had grown severer, and his judgment 
riper, and his mind had been disciplined by the study 
of the ancients ; in particular of Aristotle, whom he had 
found to differ far from the French theories ascribed to 
him. Schiller's genius was never more vigorous or bril- j 
liant, but it was now under guidance and command. 
The " Wallenstein" occupied seven years. During this 
period, the French Revolution was approaching its 
bloody crisis. Schiller gave the most unquestion- 
able proof of his hostility to its barbarous principles by 
projecting an address to the French people in favour of 
their monarch, monarchy, order, and religion ; a project 
which was not executed only because he could meet with 
no person who would undertake to translate his intended 
work into French. In 1 703, the poet revisited the scenes 
and companions of his youth, having previously ascer- 
tained that the Duke of WUrttemburg would not 
interfere with his residence at Stuttgart. His meeting 
with his parents was productive of great joy and thank- 
fulness to all parties. 

On his return to Jena, Schiller conceived a new 
literary project. He had formed an intimacy with 
William von Humboldt, (brother of the celebrated tra- 
veller,) who was then at Jena, and in concert with him, 
and his more distinguished friend Goethe, he started a 
periodical called " Hie Horen," to which the most 
eminent literary men of Germany contributed. This 
was a fertile period with our poet, who contributed 
largely to this work, and to " The Almanack of the 
Muses," while he continued to labour energetically at 
"Wallenstein." This period also produced the "Xenien," 
a collection of varied epigrams, which have widply in- 
fluenced the literature of Germany ; and the ballads, 
which are some of the most attractive of Schiller's 
writings, were the result of a friendly rivalry with 
Goethe about this time. " Wallenstein" saw the light in 
1797. Two portions of this magnificent work are well 
known to English readers, in the no less magnificent 
translation of Coleridge. It consists of three parts ; the 
first called " Wallenstein's Camp/' introductory, which 
Coleridge has not rendered, as it adds nothing to the dra- 
matic interest. It is not, however, without its uses ; as 
depicting the licence and turbulence of Wallenstein'^ 
soldiery, and inspiring the reader with a high idea of 
the commanding intellect and military tact which 
restrained so many thousands of lawless and discordant 
spirits, not only in subordination, but attachment. It 
has, moreover, somewhat the same relation to the follow- 
ing parts that the Satyric Drama had to Tragedy among 
the Greeks. The other divisions of the poem are in- 
tituled " The Piccolomini," and " The Death of Wallen- 
stein." The towering ambition, and all-mastering geniu* 
of the hero — the cold steady loyalty of Octavio Picco- 
lomini, which all that genius is powerless to ^eweh — 
the high, confiding, devoted spirit of his son, who will